AMERICA  AT  WORK 

JOSEPH  HUSBAND 


;  GIFT   OF 
MICHAEL  REESE 


AMERICA  AT  WORK.      With  frontispiece. 
A  YEAR  IN  A  COAL  MINE.      With  frontispiece. 
HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 
BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK 


AMERICA  AT  WORK 


*      *    •    c"1    ie*   e *•>*"*'          c        *       *     *«•" 


AMERICA  AT  WORK 


BY 


JOSEPH  HUSBAND 


BOSTON    AND    NEW  YORK 

HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 

press  Camferftge 
1915 


COPYRIGHT,   1915,  BY  JOSEPH   HUSBAND 
ALL  RIGHTS  RESERVED 

Published  November  iqi$ 


TO 

THAT  BEST  OF  FRIENDS 
CHARLES  TOWNSEND  COPELAND 


CONTENTS 

I.  SEMAPHORE    ......        i 

II.  THE  NARROW  HOUSE  .          .          .  1 1 

III.  VULCAN 20 

IV.  LEVIATHAN          .          .          .          .          .          32 
V.  HIGH  TENSION        .          .          .          .          .40 

VI.   FIRE-DAMP 49 

VII.   SKYSCRAPER 57 

VIII.   DYNAMITE 65 

IX.  THE  MILLS  .          .          .          i '        .          .     79 

X.  TELEPHONE  .          .          .          .          .          89 

XI.   FROM  A  THOUSAND  HILLS        .          ,          .96 

XII.  CONCRETE  .         .         .         .         .103 


AMERICA  AT  WORK 


SEMAPHORE 

EVERY  night,  at  exactly  eight  minutes 
past  nine,  the  limited  roars  through 
the  village.  I  can  see  it  coming  several 
miles  away,  its  powerful  headlight  fingering 
rails  and  telegraph  wires  with  a  shimmer  of 
light.  Silently  and  slowly  it  seems  to  draw 
nearer;  then  suddenly,  it  is  almost  above 
me.  A  wild  roar  of  steam  and  driving 
wheels,  the  wail  of  its  hoarse  whistle  at  the 
crossing,  and  then,  looming  black  against 
the  night  sky,  it  smashes  past,  and  in  the 
swing  of  drivers  and  connecting  rods  I  think 
of  a  greyhound,  or  a  racehorse  thundering 
the  final  stretch.  High  in  the  cab  window 
a  motionless  figure  peers  ahead  into  the 
i 


AMERICA  AT  WORK 

night ;  suddenly  he  is  blackly  silhouetted  by 
the  glare  of  the  opened  fire-door,  and  in  the 
orange  light  I  can  see  the  fireman  swing 
back  and  forth  as  he  feeds  his  fire.  The 
light  burns  against  the  flying  steam  and 
smoke  above;  then  blackness  —  and  now 
the  white  windows  of  the  Pullmans  flicker  f 
past,  and  through  the  swirl  of  dust  and 
smoke  I  watch  the  two  red  lights  sink  down 
the  track. 

Every  time  I  see  that  black  figure  in  the 
cab  I  wonder  how  far  he  can  peer  ahead  into  ) 
the  night,  and  I  wonder  at  the  perfect  faith 
that  is  his:  faith  in  silent  men  who  keep  the^ 
semaphores  lighted  and  true,  and  in  those 
humble  servants  whose  constant  watchful- 
ness guards  him  from  broken  rail  and  loos- 
ened fish-plate.    Last  night  I  sat  beside 
him. 

It  was  not  my  limited  that  I  boarded,  but 
a  faster,  greater  engine  that  helps  to  rush 
2 


SEMAPHORE 

half  across  the  continent  a  train  before 
which  all  others  wait  and  all  tracks  are 
cleared.  I  stood  with  the  division  superin- 
tendent on  the  platform  of  the  little  station 
where  it  must  pause  for  water.  Beyond 
yardlights  its  song  rose  clear  and  vibrant. 
With  a  flare  of  lofty  headlight  and  the  grind 
of  brakes  it  was  beside  us,  steel  lungs  pant- 
ing heavily,  a  reek  of  oil  sweating  from 
heated  sides. 

The  engineer,  a  torch  in  his  hand,  swung 
down,  and  we  shook  hands  before  I  climbed 
the  iron  rungs  to  the  cab.  From  the  high 
windows  I  watched  him  oil  and  stroke  the 
sinews  of  his  monster.  Behind,  on  the  top 
of  the  tender,  the  fireman  was  filling  the 
tanks  with  a  torrent  of  water.  Then  they 
joined  me,  and  in  the  torchlight  I  saw  the 
black  studded  end  of  the  boiler,  like  a 
giant  cask-head,  a  tangle  of  pipes  across  its 
face ;  water-gauge  and  steam  dial  dimly  il- 
3 


AMERICA  ATkWORK 

lumined  by  shaded  bulls-eyes.  The  engi- 
neer blew  out  the  torch  and  climbed  into 
his  seat.  Opposite  him,  I  settled  into  mine, 
the  fireman  behind  me. 

There  was  the  thin  piping  of  a  whistle  in 
the  cab  and  the  engineer  slowly  opened  the 
throttle.  We  were  off.  Rumbling  and  sway- 
ing, we  passed  the  upper  windows  of  the 
station.  Telegraphers  in  shirtsleeves  were 
fingering  their  instruments  beneath  shaded 
lights.  The  chill  of  the  frosty  night  air 
penetrated  the  cab,  and  I  buttoned  my  coat 
about  me  and  looked  ahead  into  the  dark- 
ness. We  were  gathering  headway.  A 
string  of  freight  cars  on  a  siding  swept  be- 
hind us;  already  the  lights  of  the  village 
were  far  behind.  Ahead  of  the  long  body 
of  the  locomotive,  extending  incredibly  be- 
yond the  small  front  windows  of  the  cab, 
the  track,  hardly  visible  in  the  ray  of  the 
headlight,  terminated  suddenly  in  the  dark- 
4 


SEMAPHORE 

ness.  The  roar  of  drivers  and  machinery 
was  deafening.  From  side  to  side  the  engine 
rocked  like  a  plunging  derelict.  The  crash- 
ing roar  grew  louder,  loud  beyond  belief, 
and  the  rocking  and  trembling  almost  threw 
me  from  the  seat. 

The  fireman  slid  open  the  jaws  of  the 
fire-box,  flooding  the  cab  with  light  and 
heat.  Within,  the  flame,  white  to  pale  daf- 
fodil in  its  intensity,  twisted  like  streams  of 
fluid  in  the  draught.  Behind  the  cab  the 
black  end  of  the  tender  rose  high  above 
my  line  of  vision,  rocking  and  swaying  in 
contrary  motion  to  the  engine,  like  a  bull- 
dog twisting  on  a  stick.  Balancing  on  the 
smooth  steel  floor,  the  fireman  stoked  his 
grate-bars,  his  shovel  feeding  spots  where 
the  coal  was  thinnest.  Then  darkness  as  he 
closed  the  doors  with  his  foot.  Only  the  two 
dim  lights  on  gauge  and  indicator;  and  on 
each  side,  and  above,  the  stars  racing  evenly 
5 


AMERICA  AT  WORK 

beside  us.  I  looked  down  at  the  road-bed:  it  \ 
was  flooding  past  us  like  a  torrent. 

"Green."  I  caught  the  word  above  the 
tumult. 

"Green,"  echoed  the  fireman. 

Far  ahead,  four  colored  lights  gleamed  like 
gems  against  the  sky.  Two  rubies  below; 
above,  another  ruby  and  beside  it  the  pale 
green  of  an  emerald.  The  green  light  was  in 
the  upper  right-hand  corner  of  the  square. 

"Seventy-five  to  eighty."  The  fireman 
shouted  in  my  ear. 

"Block's  clear.  That  green  light  gives  us 
a  clear  track." 

Already  the  block  semaphores  were  be- 
hind us.  Blinded  by  the  rush  of  air  I  tried 
to  see  the  track  ahead.  Like  a  dark  ava- 
lanche the  world  seemed  pouring  under  our 
pilot,  and  beneath  I  felt  the  road-bed,  at 
last  in  motion,  shivering  and  swirling  like  a 
mill-race.  From  under  the  engine  puffs  of 
6 


SEMAPHORE 

steam  shredded  into  fog-rift,  white  in  the 
light  from  the  round  holes  beneath  the 
grate-bars.  And  through  the  two  great  cir- 
cles of  light  projected  by  them,  as  from  a 
stereopticon,  flickered  embankments,  tele- 
graph-poles, hills  and  houses,  like  a  reeling 
cinematograph. 

"Green." 

"Green,"  came  the  confirmation. 

The  fixed  green  star  shone  for  a  minute 
and  flashed  past. 

Faintly  I  heard  the  fireman  at  my  ear. 

"Almost  ninety." 

Long  ago  the  headlight  had  become  use- 
less except  as  a  warning  of  our  approach; 
we  were  past  the  farthest  range  of  its  illu- 
mination before  the  eye  could  discern  what 
lay  before  us.  Blind  and  helpless  we  tore 
on.  Broken  rail,  a  train  on  the  crossing,  or 
open  switch,  —  we  would  never  see  it.  But 
"green"  shone  the  light,  and  wholly  trust-Hf 
7 


AMERICA  AT  WORK 

ing  in  the  silent  men  who  flashed  to  us  their 
word  of  safety  we  never  faltered.  I  thought 
of  a  stalled  train  that  might  lie  sleeping  on 
our  rails.  But  "green"  was  the  light, — 
their  thin  cry  through  the  long  night 
watches. 

The  engineer,  silent,  his  hand  fingering 
throttle  and  air-brake,  sat  huddled  high  on 
his  seat.  Through  his  goggles  he  watched 
the  blackness  ahead.  A  brief  second's  time 
to  set  his  brakes  was  all  he  asked.  Far  off  in 
the  great  city  the  chief  dispatcher  was  fol- 
lowing our  flight  mile  by  mile,  block  to 
block.  Over  the  wires  his  voice  and  the 
voices  of  his  helpers  told  the  rapid  story  of 
our  progress.  In  the  lonely  tower  at  the  r 
next  curve  some  one  would  flash  the  green 
beacon  to  our  straining  eyes,  and  report  us 
on  our  way.  To  him  others  were  now  re- 
porting, giving  him  the  certain  knowledge 
that  our  way  was  safe.  Keepers  of  the 
8 


SEMAPHORE 

safety  of  our  path ;  how  perfectly  we  trusted 
them;  how  great  and  unrewarded  is  their 
perfect  service. 

I  looked  back.     Behind,  the  Pullmans  f 
cast  steady  squares  of  light  on  the  racing 
cut.  Here  was  our  freight.    Sons  of  Mary; 
even  more  blindly  they  trusted,  "peace- 
fully sleeping  and  unaware." 

Sons  of  Martha ;  they  were  beside  me. 

"Green/5  they  chorused. 

Out  of  the  night  came  the  instant  crash 
of  the  westbound  express.  With  a  blast  of 
air  and  a  slamming  roar  it  seemed  to  brush 
us.  It  was  gone. 

Through  a  sleeping  village  we  tore  on 
with  a  wild  hoarse  cry.  Darkened  windows 
flashed  reflected  light.  A  station  platform 
whipped  past  our  heels;  huddled  groups  of 
people  pressed  back  against  the  building. 

"Green!" 

Like  brilliant  stars  from  a  rocket  gleamed 
9 


AMERICA  AT  WORK 

a  constellation  at  a  double  crossing.  Ruby 
drops  of  fire ;  but  the  pale  green  light  shone 
steadily  above.  The  wheels  hammered  on 
the  crossing. 

Thicker  and  thicker,  like  colored  fire-flies/ 
the  switchlights  tangled  in  a  maze.  We 
were  entering  the  city.  There  was  the  con- 
stant rattle  of  switch  points,  and  I  felt  the 
growing  murmur  of  the  streets.  On  either 
side  buildings  piled  up  in  shapeless  walls 
like  a  canyon;  there  were  sudden  glimpses 
of  interrupted  streets,  waiting  street  cars, 
and  the  glare  of  arc  lights.  We  were  slowing 
down. 

Cleveland.  The  station  echoed  with  the 
iron  coughing  of  engines.  Men  and  women 
surged  between  waiting  trains ;  their  voices 
mingled  in  the  uproar.  The  departing,  the 
returning;  men  staggering  with  bags  and 
suitcases,  women  with  little  children  in 
their  arms.  In  the  green  star  they  trusted. 


II 

THE   NARROW  HOUSE 

THERE  is  a  gardener  in  a  little  Massa- 
chusetts village  who  for  a  long  life- 
time has  devoted  himself  to  the  culture  of 
roses;  my  friend  in  Elmira  has  cases  upon 
cases  of  beautifully  mounted  butterflies,  for 
fifteen  years  he  has  studied  and  collected 
them;  both  have  become  authorities,  and 
so  also  has  Wheelan,  for  the  past  twenty 
years  a  maker  of  caskets. 

Casket  factories,  no  matter  what  we  may 
feel  to  the  contrary,  are  quite  like  any  other 
manufacturing  business  that  daily  places 
its  orders  with  a  hundred  different  houses 
for  its  materials  and  supplies;  and  so  it  was 
not  curiosity  that  first  took  me  there,  but 
business,  and  on  a  business  basis  my  ac- 
ii 


AMERICA  AT  WORK 

quaintance  with  Wheelan  was  begun.  In 
the  street  some  boys  were  playing  a  noisy 
game  and  on  an  opposite  corner  a  new 
house  was  building.  I  opened  the  heavy 
factory  door  and  entered  the  dusty  little 
office  of  the  superintendent.  Fine  wood 
dust  filled  the  air,  and  dust  in  a  smooth, 
flourlike  coating  lay  on  the  desk  and  the 
shelves.  Wheelan  was  checking  invoices 
and  nodded  to  me  between  figures.  I  sat 
down  on  a  chair  by  the  door  and  waited. 
Tall,  thin,  stoop-shouldered,  hands  hard 
and  twisted  with  labor;  there  is  nothing 
distinctive  about  him  except  the  pleasant 
blue  eyes  and  a  thin-set  wrinkle  or  two 
about  the  small  mouth,  that  mean  perhaps 
a  lingering  sympathy  with  humor,  perhaps 
a  simple  kindliness. 

"Do  you  want  to  go  through  the  fac- 
tory?" he  finally  asked  me,  when  business 
was  done.  I  did  and  I  did  not,  but  I  nodded 

12 


THE  NARROW  HOUSE 

and   my  acquiescence   seemed  to    please 
him.     . 

The  great  main  floor  was  cluttered  with 
machinery,  and  the  ceiling  writhed,  a  wav- 
ing jungle  of  circling  belts.  The  air  was 
heavy  with  the  dry,  pungent  smell  of  oak, 
streaked  almost  visibly,  it  seemed,  with  an 
occasional  clean  breath  of  fragrant  cedar/ 
Conversation  was  impossible  above  the 
screaming  of  the  saws  and  the  splintering 
stridor  of  the  planers.  Everywhere  were 
trucks,  high  with  piles  of  lumber,  moving 
endlessly  on  through  the  great  room,  and 
all  of  the  oak  planks  were  cut  to  one  or  two 
general  lengths:  there  were  short  ones,  and 
there  was  a  size  that  seemed  about  six  feet, 
more  or  less.  In  the  rear  of  the  woodwork- 
ing room  I  stopped  for  a  minute,  and,  ab- 
sorbed in  the  fascination  of  the  thousand 
flying  wheels  and  the  perfect  order  and  the 
system,  forgot  the  need  which  created  it.^ 
13 


AMERICA  AT  WORK 

Up  in  the  comparative  quiet  of  the  sec- 
ond floor  the  piles  of  boards  were  taking 
shape.  With  the  speed  of  long  practice  fifty 
hands  glued,  nailed,  and  fitted,  and  every- 
where against  the  walls  and  between  the 
work-tables  stood  shallow  oak  and  cedar 
boxes.  How  many  there  were!  And  yet, 
each  day  a  hundred  were  trundled  into 
waiting  freight  cars. 

There  was  a  smell  of  paint  and  varnish  in 
the  next  rooms.  Piled  high  against  the  walls 
were  a  thousand  little  boxes.  How  brief  is 
life!  With  broad  brushes  the  painters 
spread  the  smooth,  white  paint.  How  very- 
small  were  they  of  the  great  pile  in  the 
corner. 

"Something  pretty  swell  in  Circassian 
walnut,"  said  Wheelan;  "and  those,  they're 
real  mahogany,  the  genuine,  solid  stuff." 

He  patted  the  sleek  side  of  a  great  chest. 
"First-class  piano  finish.  That's  my  own 


THE  NARROW  HOUSE 

design,  those  there,  side  lets  down  and 
makes  a  divan  —  two  pillows  to  match. 
Looks  real  natural-like." 

I  looked  inside  the  unfinished  case. 

"No,  there  is  n't  any  finish  there.  No 
one  sees  that.  We  leave  the  bottoms  and 
the  insides  rough." 

Beyond,  in  the  temporary  storerooms, 
were  hundreds  of  long  boxes  of  various 
shapes  and  colors,  piled  one  above  the 
other  in  rows,  like  canoes  in  a  boathouse. 

"That  natural-shaped  kind,"  Wheelan 
said,  pointing  to  a  great  section  filled  with 
the  traditional-shaped  coffins,  all  painted 
a  lustrous  imitation  black  walnut,  "that's 
the  kind  the  soldiers  and  sailors  use.  Farm- 
ers like  'em,  too  —  we  ship  lots  up  to  Min- 
nesota and  the  Dakotas." 

"Cheap,  too,"  he  continued,  "but  those 
fine  wood  ones,  they're  my  real  delight. 
I've  got  up  three  original  designs  myself— 


AMERICA  AT  WORK 

all  turned  out  popular,  too.  Why,  Richard 
Hippin,  you  know  the  name,  of  course,  used 
that  style  X5  with  the  hand-carved  claw 
feet." 

"How  long  will  they  last,  those  cheap 
ones?"  Then,  almost  before  I  finished  my 
question,  I  suddenly  realized  how  com- 
pletely a  long-cherished  belief  had  been 
torn  from  me,  and  a  new  realization  as  in- 
stantly replaced  it.  A  few  months,  or  a  few 
years,  what  did  it  matter. 

"Oh,  the  best  of  them  go  pretty  quick,  I 
suppose.  Them?  Well,  a  year.  But  they 're 
not  put  so  well  together.  These  swell  ones 
ought  to  last  for  five  or  perhaps  ten  years. 
Then,  if  there's  a  copper  lining — " 

I  moved  away  to  look  at  an  oak  box, 
elaborately  carved  and  stained  a  shiny, 
brilliant  green.  It  is  a  very  familiar  finish, 
but  I  could  think  only  of  the  chairs  and 
tables  on  a  hotel  roof-garden,  where  there 
16 


THE  NARROW  HOUSE 

is  a  gay  little  orchestra  that  is  still  playing, 
no  matter  how  late  you  stay.  They  are 
finished  in  the  same  stain. 

At  the  end  of  a  long  high  room  ten  young 
women  were  sewing  white  lilies  of  the  valley 
on  filmy  shrouds.  Outside  there  was  sun- 
shine and  the  noise  of  the  street;  they 
looked  up  when  we  entered,  smiling  and 
chatting  over  their  work.  They  were  very 
gay  and  their  eyes  seemed  filled  with 
thoughts  far  away  from  white  silk  and 
shapeless  garments. 

A  man  was  gluing  a  strip  of  thick,  black 
cloth  on  the  side  of  a  casket,  smoothing  it 
until  there  was  no  crease,  then  heating  it 
with  a  jet  of  puffy  steam  to  give  it  a 
gloss. 

"How's  that  for  style?"  said  Wheelan. 
"It's  so  dignified  and  yet  it  ain't  cheap- 
looking,  even  if  it  is  sort  of  plain.  Put  on 
silver  handles  and  a  nice  plate  and  you  get 
17 


AMERICA  AT  WORK 

something  that  goes  into  the  very  best 
houses." 

Satin  and  fine  cloth  were  the  linings,  but 
beneath  the  rich  textures  the  workmen  were 
stuffing  excelsior.  A  young  woman  with  a 
mountainous  plenitude  of  immaculate  xsaf- 
Jron  hair  was  tacking  gimp  along  the  edges. 
She  was  whistling  a  snatch  from  "The 
Chocolate  Soldier." 

Down  again,  on  a  lower  floor,  the  care- 
fully wrapped  caskets  were  being  cased- in 
the  familiar  rough  boxes. 

"It's  nice  work,"  said  Wheelan,  "and 
there's  always  a  chance  to  make  improve- 
ments. Of  course  there  are  regular  lines  you 
have  to  follow,  but  if  a  man's  got  his  heart 
in  the  work,  he  can  show  himself." 

It  was  a  long  walk  to  the  car,  and  on  the 

way  I  thought  of  an  Eastern  legend  that  I 

once  heard.  It  told  of  a  wise  and  godly  man, 

who,  in  a  vision,  saw  himself  sitting  on  the 

18 


THE  NARROW  HOUSE 

highest  peak  of  the  Himalayas.  An  angel, 
descending,   touched    the    peak  with    his 
wing  and  a  single  grain  of  sand  fell  into  the 
abyss  below.   "Once  in  a  thousand  years,"'  ~~~i 
said  the  angel,  "I  brush  a  grain  of  sand 
from  this  lofty  peak.  In  time  I  will  level  it 
to  the  plain,  —  and  yet  eternity  is  but  be- 
gun." And  then  I  thought  of  another  who    » 
said  so  simply:  "All  is  vanity."  U^ Ji 


Ill 

VULCAN 

TEN  years  ago,  the  low  dunes,  a  des- 
ert of  yellow  sand  and  beach-grass, 
stretched  unbroken  from  the  foot  of  Lake 
Michigan  south  to  the  headwaters  of  the 
Kankakee.  Since  the  early  days  when  the 
good  Father  Marquette  was  paddled  slowly 
around  the  curving  beach  line  to  die  finally 
on  the  Michigan  shore,  they  have  remained 
—  a  desert  of  soft  colors  in  the  summer,  a 
sleet-swept  tract  in  winter.  A  few  miles 
north,  on  the  western  edge  of  the  lake,  a 
vast  city,  in  a  single  century,  was  born  and 
thrust  its  towers  high  against  the  horizon. 
Then,  suddenly,  came  an  instant  trans- 
formation. Othef  cities,  filled  with  the  men 
of  every  nation,  flattened  the  dunes  into 
20 


VULCAN 

level  streets.  Along  the  lake  shore  strange 
structures  of  steel,  reeking  with  smoke  and 
blackness,  streaked  the  sky  with  a  cloud  by 
day  and  a  glare  of  furnaces  by  night.  From 
a  hundred  meshing  tracks  the  clamor  of  lo- 
comotives rose  above  the  murmur  of  the 
city's  streets.  Steel,  Vulcan,  had  usurped 
the  wastes  of  sand  and  wiry  beach-grass. 
Progress  and  industry  stained  the  blue 
Indiana  sky  with  the  smoke  of  a  thousand 
chimneys.  //  ^ 

The  long  concrete  slip  slashed  the  beach 
lines.  Beyond  its  mouth  the  lake,  a  brilliant 
ultramarine,  pounded  in  before  the  north 
wind  ;but  inside,  the  quiet  water  was  tawny 
with  riled  sand  and  the  stain  of  iron. 
Against  the  nearest  dock  an  ore  steamer 
rested  its  long,  low  body  beneath  the 
shadow  of  a  steel  trestle  that  reached  out, 
far  above  it.  With  sudden  motion  a  grab- 
bucket  swung  down  on  slender  cables  from 

21 


AMERICA  AT  WORK 

the  trestle  and  disappeared  in  the  waist  of 
the  ship.  In  an  instant  it  lifted  on  tight- 
ened cables,  heavy  with  ore,  and  swung 
ashore  with  grinding  vibration  of  wheels 
and  electric  motors,  to  drop  its  contents  on 
the  ore  pile  that  ran  parallel  with  the  dock. 
Like  a  mountain  range  the  vermilion  peaks 
of  ore  piled  up  above  me,  from  the  mouth  of 
the  harbor  far  inland,  so  high  that  behind 
them  only  the  tops  of  the  tallest  furnaces 
appeared  against  the  sky.  From  the  scarred 
hills  of  northern  Minnesota,  down  the 
length  of  Lake  Superior  and  Lake  Michigan, 
other  steamers  were  bringing  fresh  food  for 
the  hungry  furnaces.  The  reverberation  of 
the  mills  rose  sharp  above  the  even  cadence 
of  the  surf. 

Like  strange  Martian  creatures  the  blast 
furnaces  squatted  beyond  the  ore  piles. 
Ample-waisted,  they  flanked  them,  and  be- 
tween their  huge  structures  the  long  row 

22 


VULCAN 

of  "stoves/5  high  as  modest  skyscrapers, 
lifted  their  slender  domes  in  even  line.  Be- 
yond, a  vast  pile  of  coal  reared  black  against 
white  heaps  of  broken  limestone. 

Inside  the  steel  structure  which  inclosed 
the  furnace  a  score  of  blackened,  half-naked 
men  were  moulding  huge  troughs  of  sand 
to  receive  the  surplus  iron  which  would 
pour  forth  when  later  they  "cast  the  fur- 
nace." Hot,  and  enormous  in  girth,  the 
furnace  filled  the  building.  Inside,  under 
forced  draught,  and  at  a  temperature  of 
thirty-five  hundred  degrees,  layers  of  coke, 
limestone,  and  iron  ore  were  undergoing 
their  vital  transformation.  By  the  heat  of 
the  consuming  coke  the  iron  was  filtering 
down  in  liquid  flood,  purified  and  refined 
by  the  flux  of  melted  limestone. 

From  beneath  the  furnace  a  squat  lo- 
comotive dragged  a  string  of  curious  cars 
across  a  desolate  field  to  the  steel  mills. 
23 


AMERICA  AT  WORK 

On  low  trucks  the  ladles,  like  inverted 
cones,  carried  the  liquid  metal,  —  so  hot 
that  four  hours  might  elapse  before  it  so- 
lidified. 

In  the  twilight  of  a  long  corrugated  build- 
ing the  brick  ovens  of  the  open  hearths 
stretched  away  into  almost  indefinable  dis- 
tance. Heat,  fresh  consuming  heat,  choked 
the  air.  And  from  chinks  in  the  hearths 
a  white  light  of  indescribable  intensity 
pierced  my  eyeballs. 

The  trainload  of  molten  metal  had  ar- 
rived before  us.  Already  a  big-lipped  ladle 
had  been  dragged  by  an  electric  engine 
into  the  gloom  of  the  building,  and  up  to 
the  hearth-mouth. 

The  doors  of  the  hearth  were  thrown 
suddenly  open.  A  blinding  whiteness 
streaked  with  saffron,  and  heat  almost  be- 
yond endurance,  made  me  draw  back  be- 
hind a  column.  A  workman  thrust  a  pair 
24 


VULCAN 

of  deep-blue  glasses  in  my  hand.  Slowly 
the  great  ladle  bent  forward.  From  its 
spout  a  trickle  of  fluid  iron  poured  faster 
and  faster  until  the  white  cascade,  at  full 
flood,  seethed  into  the  hearth-bath.  A 
shower  of  sparks,  strange  flowery  pyrotech- 
nics, shot  high  into  the  gloom.  Through 
the  blue  glass  I  peered  into  the  hearth.  Like 
an  infernal  lake  it  swirled  and  eddied,  a 
whirlpool  of  incandescent  flame.  Leaping 
tongues  of  pink  and  lavender  danced  in  the 
blue  darkness.  Shielding  their  goggled  faces 
from  the  heat,  the  workmen  cast  lumps 
of  rich  ore  into  the  hearth-mouth,  —  black 
silhouettes  of  men  against  the  blue  glare  of 
an  uncanny  firelight. 

Behind  the  long  row  of  open  hearths  huge 
cranes  rumbled  back  and  forth  on  their 
tracks  beneath  the  roof,  the  operators,  con- 
cealed somewhere  on  their  rivet-studded 
frames,  directing  the  swinging  cables  that 
25 


AMERICA  AT  WORK 

lifted  and  carried  weights  inconceivable. 
High  in  the  dark  vault  a  great  crane  swung 
over  us. 

"They're  going  to  tap  a  heat,"  shouted 
the  assistant  superintendent  in  my  ear,  his 
words  sounding  faint  and  fragmentary 
above  the  steady  roar  that  filled  the  build- 
ing. 

On  the  floor  below,  an  electric  motor 
trundled  an  empty  ladle  into  place  beneath 
the  rear  of  one  of  the  hearths. 

Then  from  the  hearth,  with  a  mad  daze 
of  brilliancy,  fifty-six  tons  of  molten  steel 
began  to  disgorge  itself.  Once  more  I  put 
on  the  blue  glasses.  Against  the  deep  purple 
gloom  of  the  building  the  stream  of  metal 
shot  forward  and  bent  in  the  soft  curve  of 
running  water,  k  Like  pale  moonbeams  the 
sunlight  rays  from  glassless  windows  pierced 
the  darkness,  and  sharp  across  them  le.aped 
the  avalanche  of  steel,  a  flood  of  brilliant 
26 


VULCAN 

pink  and  blue  that  showered  the  room  with 
a  constellation  of  falling  stars. 

For  a  brief  minute  I  took  off  the  glasses. 
In  the  terrible  glare  of  light  all  background 
disappeared.  Gone  were  the  dark  shapes 
of  the  toilers  beneath;  gone  the  uncanny 
moonlight.  Yellow,  tawny,  brilliant  as  the 
contact  of  an  electric  arc,  the  swirling  metal 
scorched  my  vision.  A  halo  of  flame  seemed 
to  envelop  the  ladle .// 

It  was  full.  Through  the  glass,  again, 
it  boiled  soapy  and  seething,  the  crest  of 
its  wave-tossed  surface  crimson  and  blue. 
Stowly  from  the  crane  above,  two  great 
hoo^s,  like  bent  fingers,  caught  the  handles 
on  it^  sides,  lifted  it,  and  with  a  hail  of 
sparks  and  a  glare  of  heat  against  our  faces, 
swung  it  far  above  us.  Then,  with  grinding 
reverberation,  it  moved  past,  far  down  the 
long  gallery,  to  be  poured  into  ingots  in  the 
waiting  moulds. 

27 


AMERICA  AT  WORK 

pln  the  "blooming  mill"  there  was  the 
continuous  rumble  of  mighty  thunder. 
Cherry-red  against  the  darkness,  the  incan- 
descent ingots  of  steel  shot  back  and  forth 
between  giant  fingers  that  pressed  and 
worked  them  at  every  passing;  for  like 
dough  that  must  be  kneaded  to  acquire  a 
certain  consistency,  steel  must  be  worked 
to  obtain  those  qualities  which  its  ultimate 
purpose  will  demand. 

Into  a  great  plank  a  hundred  feet  long 
the  solid  ingot  flattened  resistlessly  be- 
tween the  stroking  rollers.  Then,  finished, 
it  shot  abruptly  beneath  a  knife  that 
snipped  it  lightly  into  even  bars  of  manage- 
able weight. 

In  the  structural  mill  the  billets  of  steel, 
still  malleable  with  glowing  heat,  rumbled 
noisily  back  and  forth  on  the  metal  floor, 
propelled  invisibly  by  countless  whirling 
rollers  that  shot  them  with  incredible  speed 
28 


VULCAN 

and  certainty  of  direction.  As  I  looked 
down  the  length  of  the  gloomy  building,  the 
glare  of  the  moving  bars  of  metal  contrasted 
so  sharply  with  the  black  floor  that  they 
alone  were  visible,  like  strange  illuminated 
bodies  that  floated  and  swam  on  a  sea  of 
inky  water.  Through  devious  channels  they 
navigated,  palpably  changing,  narrowing, 
lengthening,  until  at  last,  in  the  far  end  of 
the  building,  the  finished  angle-bar  or  I- 
beam  was  deposited,  a  perfect  thing,  of 
cooling  lead-gray  steel. 

And  still  more  buildings;  parallel  with 
each  other;  equally  vast;  filled  with  dark- 
ness and  tumult,  the  shifting  shapes  of 
giant  roof-hung  cranes,  and  the  red  glow  of 
heated  metal./  Like  paste  from  a  tube,  a 
thin  rope  of  white-hot  steel  emerged  from  a 
shapeless  machine  that  crouched  squat  on 
the  iron  floor,  and  with  a  breath  of  heat 
disappeared  in  the  breast  of  another  mon- 
29, 


AMERICA  AT  WORK 

ster  that  trembled  with  the  reverberation 
of  a  hundred  hammers.  And  faster  than 
the  hand  of  my  watch  could  count  the  sec- 
onds, a  hail  of  railroad  spikes,  still  glowing, 
leaped  finished  from  its  thundering  womb. 
Bolts,  spikes,  nuts,  and  rivets,  madly,  with 
the  tumult  of  clashing  steel,  poured  finished 
from  the  vitals  of  the  uncouth  machines. 

Plates  of  steel  for  the  flanks  of  ships 
which  will  some  day  transport  the  wares 
of  a  trading  world.  Rails  and  spikes  to  carry 
high  over  mountain  passes  the  flitting 
trains  that  make  distant  cities  one.  Bolt, 
rivet,  and  girder  for  the  towering  building. 
Steel,  steel  for  its  multifold  destinies,  here 
it  is  born  in  heat  and  labor.  Steel  for  an 
_  age  of  steel. 

In  the  twilight  of  the  late  summer  after- 
noon the  world  seemed  strangely  quiet  and 
at  peace.  Sharp  and  black  against  the  yel- 
low sky  the  roofs  and  stacks  of  the  mills 
30 


VULCAN 

rose  like  the  sky-line  of  a  ruined  city;  and 
in  an  occasional  opening  the  blue  lake 
gleamed  with  the  brilliant  light  of  sapphire. 
In  the  gathering  darkness  electric  lights 
began  to  glimmer.  Flares  of  dull-red  gas- 
flame  burst  out  like  volcanoes  and  suddenly 
were  gone. 

Loud  and  metallic  a  hurdy-gurdy  lifted 
the  rippling  cadence  of  a  Neapolitan  air 
in  a  distant  street.  Beyond  the  mill-yard 
gates  the  saloon  windows  shone  gayly  and 
arc  lights  trembled  into  life.  Day  was  over. 


IV 

LEVIATHAN 

A  COLD  northeast  wind  had  come  up 
from  the  sea,  and  before  it  the  fog 
was  flying  in  great,  torn  clouds  of  mist,  like 
rifted  smoke.  Above  the  deck  of  the  yacht 
it  billowed  past  the  thin  slant  masts,  and  at 
times,  when  it  opened  a  little,  the  sun,  a  pale 
yellow  disk,  shone  weakly  for  a  minute  until 
another  gust  of  fog  closed  in  before  it.  Aft, 
the  propellers  combed  out  on  the  pitching 
green  surface  of  the  sea  a  channel  of  soapy 
white,  that  ended  not  many  yards  astern, 
where  fog  and  water  met. 

I  was  standing  on  the  forward  deck,  my 

face  dripping  with  moisture  and  a  thousand 

little  beads  of  mist  clinging  like  dew  to  my 

clothes.  The  air  was  heavy  with  the  smell 

32 


f  LEVIATHAN 

of  green  salt  water,  borne  strong  on  the  rising 
breeze,  and  the  smell  of  the  ship,  that  inde- 
finable blend  of  odors  exhaled  from  cabin, 
galley,  and  engine-room.  From  below  decks 
came  the  murmur  of  the  engines,  and 
from  beneath  the  bows,  where  her  sharp 
prow  carried  a  white  bone  in  its  teeth, 
the  noise  of  rushing  water  was  flung  back 
on  the  wind.  Aft,  in  the  shelter  of  the 
deck-houses,  a  white- jacketed  Japanese  was 
passing  sandwiches  to  the  ladies.^" 

The  first  mate,  who  stood  beside  me, 
peered  up  into  the  fog. 

"Rotting  out  a  bit,"  he  said;  "guess 
there's  a  chance  it'll  burn  off  by  noon. 
Won't  see  much  of  the  launching  if  it  don't." 

As  he  spoke,  there  was  a  sudden  gap  in 
the  flying  mist  and  from  a  square  of  blue  the 
sun  shone  brightly  for  a  minute.  From  the 
port  bow  came  the  soft,  low  tolling  of  a  bell 
buoy,  and  as  the  fog  grew  weaker  it  seemed 
33 


AMERICA  AT  WORK 

to  start  toward  us  out  of  the  mist,  a  swing- 
ing tripod  of  blackened  iron,  the  water 
swashing  and  surging  on  its  circular  base  as 
it  careened  in  the  heaving  sea.  As  the  yacht 
cut  past  it,  the  bell  for  an  instant  struck 
loud  and  clear,  and  then  grew  faint  and  was 
gone  as  we  swept  it  far  behind. 

An  hour  later  the  fog  had  lifted  and  the 
last  white  shreds  were  flying  inland  over  the 
hills.  From  the  open  sea  the  wind  came  cold 
and  clear,  and  under  the  brilliant  sunlight 
the  water  sparkled  a  vivid  blue,  broken  by 
bands  of  green.  On  our  starboard  side  the 
coast-line  pressed  out  against  the  water, 
rocks  and  the  green  of  trees  dark  against  the 
pale  horizon.  In  a  sweeping  curve  the  yacht 
swept  past  a  dipping  spar  buoy,  from  which 
a  pair  of  gray  gulls  rose  with  screaming  pro- 
tests and  headed  for  the  land. 

We  were  all  on  the  forward  deck  now, 
watching  the  houses  of  the  town  and  trying 
34 


LEVIATHAN 

to  mark  the  shipyards.  Aloft,  the  crew  were 
dressing  the  yacht  in  a  riot  of  signals; 
strings  of  yellow,  red,  and  blue  bunting 
flung  in  flying  festoons  from  every  spar  tip, 
each  flag  snapping  free  in  the  steady  breeze. 
The  houses  of  the  town  grew  larger;  two 
church  spires  appeared,  thin  and  lofty 
against  the  sky,  and  a  long  streak  of  yellow, 
on  a  little  headland,  evolved  into  a  sprawl- 
ing summer  hotel  perched  high  above  the 
breakwater. 
,  "There  she  is!"  some  one  shouted. 

High  above  the  houses  by  the  water's 
edge  a  black  bulk  loomed  upward.  There 
were  masts  above ;  masts  and  the  flutter  of 
flying  flags.  It  was  the  new  ship  upon  the 
ways. 

The  harbor  was  cluttered  with  vessels. 

A  dozen  dingy  schooners,  like  shabby  gulls, 

swung  at  anchor  against  the  tide.  Tugs  and 

fishing-boats  swarmed  in  a  wild  disorder. 

35 


AMERICA  AT  WORK 

White  excursion  steamers,  their  decks  slant- 
ing with  passengers  crowded  on  the  shore 
rail,  lumbered  up  and  down  the  harbor, 
paddle-wheels  frothing  against  their  sides. 
Power  dories  and  boats  and  launches  sput- 
tered recklessly  back  and  forth,  their  un- 
muffled  engines  exploding  in  irregular  vol- 
leys as  they  half  swamped  in  the  swell  from 
every  passing  boat.  From  the  shore  came 
the  intermittent  blare  of  a  brass  band ;  now- 
a  few  clear  notes  and  then  a  silence  as  the 
music  was  blown  back  by  the  breeze.  And 
above  all  the  noisy  uproar  of  the  harbor,  the 
great,  six-masted  schooner  lifted  its  smooth, 
black  sides  from  the  shingled  buildings  that 
seemed  to  cling  like  barnacles  to  its  keel. 

From  the  shore  came  the  sharp  strokes 
of  axes  and  hammers.  A  police-boat  offi- 
ciously rocked  past  us.  "Keep  back  of  the 
lines,"  shouted  an  excited  man  through  a 
megaphone ; "  she  '11  swing  this  way."  Grad- 

36 


LEVIATHAN 

ually  the  tugs  and  steamers  drew  back  into 
line;  before  them  a  great  square  of  open 
water  shimmered  in  the  sunlight. 

"She's  off!"  shouted  the  mate. 

Motionless  the  great  ship  seemed  to  cling 
to  the  ways.  There  was  a  lull  in  the  wind 
and  from  her  after-deck  came  a  few  blar- 
ing bars  of  "The  Star-Spangled  Banner." 
Above  the  heads  of  the  players  an  American 
flag  lazily  coiled  and  blew  open  from  the 
peak. 

No  one  but  the  mate  saw  her  start,  but 
suddenly  I  realized  that  with  constantly  in- 
creasing speed  the  towering  ship  was  gliding 
down  the  ways  to  the  water's  edge.  A  roar 
of  many  voices,  the  brazen  clamor  of  the 
band,  shrieking  whistles,  and  the  detona- 
tions of  yachts'  cannon  seemed  to  quicken 
her  speed.  From  the  shadow  of  the  smooth, 
straight  keel  puffs  of  gray  smoke  fanned  up 
against  her  sides,  for  the  friction  had  ignited 
37 


AMERICA  AT  WORK 

the  grease-soaked  blocks  beneath  her.  Fast- 
er and  faster,  stern  foremost,  she  swept  to 
the  sea.  With  a  dull  roar  she  reached  it  and,- 
half  submerged  by  her  plunge,  the  stern 
buried  itself  in  the  water  and  a  white  wave 
curled  up  around  it.  Like  a  swimmer  breast- 
ing the  surf  she  reared  up  again,  and  again 
plunged  with  a  pitching  motion;  again  and 
again,  each  one  growing  fainter,  until  at 
last  she  rode  smoothly,  in  the  middle  of 
the  harbor,  her  long  black  body  swinging 
against  her  anchor  chains  and  the  two  tugs 
which  held  her. 

The  launching  was  over  and  another  ship 
had  begun  her  brave  life.  Perhaps  she 
might  be  the  last  giant  of  her  kind.  Steel 
plates  and  smoking  funnels  have  replaced 
stout  oak  and  widespread  canvas.  I  thought 
of  the  days  when  every  harbor  was  a  ship- 
yard, when  great  clippers  raced  back  with 
tea-packed  holds  -on  record  runs  from 

38 


LEVIATHAN 

Shanghai  and  Hongkong  to  New  York;  rec- 
ords that  stand  to-day. 

Outside  of  the  harbor  we  met  a  dingy 
tramp  steamer,  light-laden,  her  rusty  plates 
unpainted,  her  propeller  threshing  half 
above  sea.  From  her  black  funnel  a  cloud 
of  smoke  trailed  far  astern.  Here  was  the 
conqueror. 

Two  years  later  I  read  of  the  abandon- 
ment of  that  great  vessel  I  had  seen  first 
greet  the  sea.  She  was  impracticable,  they 
said;  too  many  men  were  needed  to  work 
her  sails ;  soon  the  great  masts  were  to  fall, 
and  the  decapitated  hulk,  filled  with  oil,  was 
to  be  towed  by  tug  from  port  to  port. 


HIGH  TENSION 

THE  purple  blackness  of  the  sky  was 
misted  with  a  myriad  stars,  faint 
coruscations  which  illuminated  the  night 
with  a  dim  radiance.  Against  the  stars  rose 
the  black  silhouettes  of  the  hills,  and  be- 
tween them  the  broad  river  was  faintly 
visible,  an  expanse  of  silent  blackness  that 
glistened  here  and  there  like  polished  mar- 
ble in  the  starlight. 

The  watchman  came  limping  down  the 
parapet,  his  lame  foot  scraping  on  the  con- 
crete floor. 

"Better  take  a  look  at  the  dam,"  he 
shouted;  "ain't  often  you  see  water  going 
over  this  time  of  year." 

Like  a  half-strung  bow  the  long  dam 
40 


HIGH  TENSION 

curves  its  slanting  concrete  wall  from  cliff 
to  cliff  across  the  valley.  At  one  end,  piled 
up  against  its  smooth  white  face  in  an  angle 
with  the  cliff,  the  power  house  braces  its 
broad  back  squarely  against  it :  a  great  con- 
crete building,  its  topmost  story  alone  ap- 
pearing above  the  crest  of  the  dam.  And 
through  the  latticed  grills,  from  the  deep 
reservoir  of  the  valley  above,  the  silent 
water  discharges,  whirling,  reeling,  and 
staggering  under  the  mighty  pressure,  into 
the  deep-lying  turbine  chambers,  whence  it 
finally  emerges  in  a  roaring  but  shattered 
torrent  from  the  draft  tubes  beneath  the 
firm-planted  feet  of  the  building. 

In  the  dim  starlight  and  the  gleam  of  the 
lantern,  the  river  stretched  limitless  in  the 
darkness,  but  following  the  edge  of  the  dam, 
the  smooth  surface  seemed  ripped  open  as 
though  by  a  keen  blade,  and  a  long  curl  of 
foaming  white  marked  where  the  crowding 
41 


AMERICA  AT  WORK 

water  leaped  its  barrier  and  fell  gleaming  to 
the  bed  of  the  river  below. 

"Do  you  have  much  trouble  with  the  ice 
in  winter  ? "  I  asked,  as  the  watchman  stood 
with  his  hand  on  the  door  which  leads  from 
the  dam  into  the  power  house. 

"No,  it  ain't  so  bad.  Pretty  seldom  that 
the  ice  gets  bad  in  the  forebay."  In  ex- 
planation he  waved  his  arm  at  the  basin 
directly  behind  the  power  house.  "It's  all 
protected  with  a  boom  of  logs  so  that  the 
ice  and  floating  stuff  won't  jam  up  against 
the  grills.  It's  down  there  in  the  power 
house  where  they  have  the  trouble;  there 
and  out  on  the  transmission  lines." 

For  a  minute  we  stood  in  the  doorway. 
As  though  wiped  clean  from  the  sky  the 
stars  along  the  horizon  had  disappeared  and 
only  above  were  they  still  shining  clearly. 
Then  for  a  second  distant  lightning  flick- 
ered behind  the  hills,  sharply  defining 
42 


HIGH  TENSION 

the  outline  of  trees  against  a  cumulus  of 
clouds. 

"Guess  you'll  see  some  fun  if  you  stay 
late  enough  to-night;  there's  a  storm  up 
river,  —  that's  where  three  of  our  trans- 
mission lines  go,  up  to  Bolton."  He  pushed 
the  door  open  and  we  entered  the  top  floor 
of  the  power  house.  On  a  steady  wave  of 
heated  air  came  the  roar  of  machinery  andt 
smell  of  oil.  A  long  flight  of  stairs,  beyond 
another  door,  led  sharply  down  between 
smooth,  white  walls  of  concrete  to  several 
floors  below.  Halfway  down,  the  lights  on  a 
landing  shone  brightly,  and  at  the  foot  a 
glare  of  light  sharply  outlined  the  square 
opening  to  the  stair  well. 

From  the  landing  I  glanced  about  me.  A 
long  room  brilliantly  lighted  occupied  the 
entire  floor  of  the  building.  Down  the  cen- 
ter and  along  the  walls  extended  rows  of 
stone  shelves  and  alcoves.  Here  were  the 
43 


AMERICA  AT  WORK 

giant  oil  switches  which  opened  or  closed  at 
the  touch  of  the  operator  on  the  switch- 
board gallery  on  a  floor  below,  loading  or 
clearing  the  transmission  lines  of  an  electric 
current  sufficient  to  light  and  turn  the 
wheels  of  distant  cities.  On  shelves  gleamed 
the  heavy  copper  bus  bars,  switch  sidings 
where  the  current  pulsed  from  the  genera- 
tors and  without  a  pause  surged  out  a  hun- 
dred miles. 

"Ain't  no  place  to  visit,"  said  the  watch- 
man. "There's  seventy  thousand  volts  on 
them  bars,  an'  if  you  get  too  near  it  will 
jump  at  you;  enough  to  kill  an  elephant, 
an'  you'd  never  know  what  hit  you." 

At  the  foot  of  the  stairs  the  air  fanned 
hot  in  our  faces  and  the  scream  of  the  gen- 
erators rose  shrill  and  deafening.  We  were 
standing  on  the  switchboard  gallery,  a 
curved  balcony  which  clung  to  the  wall  of 
the  generator  room  twenty  feet  above  the 
44 


HIGH  TENSION 

floor  and  midway  to  the  roof.  Below  in  a 
long  line  the  great  generators  filled  the 
smooth  stone  floor. 

"Well,  guess  I'll  have  to  leave  you/'  said 
the  watchman.  "Through  for  the  night. 
Shake  hands  with  Mr.  Fogarty,  he's  night 
operator,  he'll  show  you  the  rest." 

The  night  operator,  a  spare  young  man 
in  clean  overalls  and  a  blue  shirt,  led  me 
to  a  chair  beside  his  table. 

"Here's  where  we  direct  things,"  he  ex- 
plained, "kind  of  hard  to  hear  if  you  are  n't 
used  to  the  noise,  so  you  can  watch  and  I'll 
tell  you  all  I  can.  There's  a  bad  electric 
storm  up  the  valley  and  we  are  liable  to  be 
pretty  busy  here  for  a  few  hours." 

Along  the  back  of  the  gallery  a  multitude 
of  white-faced  dials  with  quivering  indica- 
tors were  set  in  high  panels  of  marble,  be- 
low them  the  handles  of  the  controlling 
switches. 

45 


AMERICA  AT  WORK 

There  was  a  sudden,  palpitating  light  be- 
yond the  windows  and  fast  behind  it  a  rend- 
ing crash  of  thunder  like  the  snap  of  an  iron 
girder.  At  the  same  minute  the  telephone 
in  a  booth  beside  the  switchboard  rang 
shrilly. 

"Lightning  struck  one  of  our  transmis- 
sion towers  about  thirty  miles  from  here!" 
shouted  the  operator  as  he  dashed  out  of  the 
booth  and  began  to  work  at  the  switch- 
board. "I'm  cutting  out  that  line  so  that 
the  repair  crew  on  the  section  can  straighten 
things  out." 

He  was  telephoning  again,  telling  his  men 
that  the  line  was  dead  and  safe.  Outside, 
the  storm  was  breaking  in  full  force,  and 
the  trembling  light  through  the  tall  win- 
dows disclosed  the  black  hills  and  the  river 
like  the  reeling  film  of  a  cinematograph.  A 
blinding  flare  seemed  to  blast  the  windows 
and  with  it  came  a  terrific  crash  of  thunder. 


HIGH  TENSION 

"Another  line's  gone/'  he  shouted;  "that 
one  hit  mighty  near  here.  Did  you  hear  it 
scream?"  On  the  board  there  was  a  flick- 
ering of  the  needles  on  several  of  the  dials. 
Again  came  the  telephone ;  a  minute  at  the 
board,  and  again  he  answered.  "We're  in 
bad  to-night,"  he  called  to  me.  "This  has 
n't  left  me  much  to  work  with,  but  we've 
got  to  keep  things  going." 

From  far  below,  and  at  times  rising  above 
the  note  of  the  generator,  came  a  deep 
booming,  a  bass  note  that  tuned  with  the 
wilder  song  of  the  machines:  it  was  the 
roar  of  the  tailraces  where  the  water  thun- 
dered down  from  the  turbine  chambers 
through  the  draft  tubes  to  the  bed  of  the 
river. 

For  a  long  hour  the  operator  moved 
slowly  back  and  forth  before  the  switch- 
board. Now  and  then  the  telephone  jingled 
and  short  messages  were  given  and  re- 

47 


AMERICA  AT  WORK 

ceived.  Over  his  shoulder  he  threw  to  me 
occasional  explanations,  strange  techni- 
cal sentences  rilled  with  incomprehensible 
phrases:  syncroscopes,  electrolytic  arrest- 
ers, picking  phases,  and  getting  the  gen- 
erators in  step  again.  Then  came  the  mes- 
sage that  repairs  on  one  of  the  sections  had 
been  made. 

The  strain  was  over  and  he  dropped 
limply  in  a  chair  beside  me. 

For  a  minute  I  watched  him.  "Mighty 
little  the  people  in  the  cities  know,"  I  said, 
"when  things  go  wrong." 

He  laughed  a  little.  "No,  and,  friend, 
to-night's  nothing;  why,  some  nights  we 
have  trouble." 


VI 

FIRE-DAMP 

IN  the  soft,  yellow  glow  of  his  safety 
lamp,  Campbell  peered  into  the  black- 
ness of  the  tunnel.  On  either  side  a  long  row 
of  props,  chalked  with  fungus  growth,  and 
bending  under  the  weight  of  the  low  roof, 
stretched  out  beyond  the  dim  lamplight  and 
disappeared,  and  behind  them  the  rough 
walls  of  coal  glistened  like  broken  glass. 
There  was  no  sound,  but  the  steady  pres- 
sure of  the  air  current,  dry  and  pungent, 
seemed  to  carry  a  vibration  that  sang 
softly  in  his  ears.  Then  from  behind  him 
came  the  noise  of  feet,  clumping  over  the 
coal-strewn  floor  of  the  tunnel. 

"Any  gas  in  Number  Six?"  Campbell 
shouted,  without  turning  his  head.    The 
49 


AMERICA  AT  WORK 

words  were  sharp  and  clear,  but  there  was 
no  echo.  Still  peering  ahead  into  the  black- 
ness he  waited  until  the  sound  of  the  man's 
feet  grew  louder,  and  a  faint  increase  in  the 
yellow  haze  of  light  told  him  he  was  stand- 
ing beside  him. 

"No,  it's  all  clear  in  Six."  There  was 
an  uneasiness  in  the  voice,  and  Campbell 
turned  and  looked  down  into  the  sharp, 
thin  face  of  the  mine  inspector. 

"Well,  let's  go  ahead."  Slowly  they 
walked  into  the  blackness,  over  the  uneven 
floor,  and  slowly  as  they  advanced  the  faint 
light  of  their  lamps,  for  the  brief  moment  of 
their  passing,  disclosed  the  gleaming  walls 
of  the  tunnel,  the  low  roof,  the  track  clut- 
tered with  broken  coal,  and  monotonous 
files  of  white-splashed  timbers  that  melted 
into  blackness  behind  them. 

"  She 's  back  in  Paris  entry,"  said  Camp- 
bell. He  was  a  large-framed  man  with  fair, 
So 


FIRE-DAMP 

uncut  hair  that  curled  slightly  beneath  the 
bottom  of  his  blackened  pit  cap ;  over  his 
strong,  white  teeth  a  drooping  yellow  mus- 
tache, heavy  with  coal  dust,  half  hid  deep- 
creased  lines  about  his  mouth.  Twice  in  the 
three  long  months  that  had  just  passed 
"She"  had  swept  resistless  through  the 
miles  of  tunnels,  —  a  wave  of  rending  and 
scorching  flame,  which  burst  into  being 
when  perhaps  some  latent  spark  from  the 
fire  which  had  long  ago  closed  the  mine,  or  a 
defective  gauze  in  a  safety  lamp,  had  ig- 
nited the  explosive  mixture  of  air  and  gas 
which  completely  filled  the  "workings." 
To  them  "She"  was  a  creature,  an  inde- 
scribable something,  a  terrible  personifica- 
tion of  death  and  destruction;  and  in  the 
silent  places  of  their  hearts  they  feared  her. 
"She  ain't  going  to  let  go  again,"  said 
Campbell.  "  It  was  n't  fire  set  her  off 
last  time.  It  was  Johnny  Cashay's  lamp 
Si 


AMERICA  AT  WORK 

touched  her  off.   There  must  have  been  a 
hole  somewhere  in  the  gauze." 

"Sam!"  They  stopped  and  listened,  and 
Campbell  moistened  his  finger  and  held  it 
high  above  his  head,  close  under  the  roof. 

"The  air's  moving  good;  Five  will  be 
clear  of  gas  in  an  hour,  and  we  can  explore 
up  to  Four.  Do  you  smell  nothing?"  They 
sniffed  the  dry  air  which  blew  softly  past 
them. 

"I  thought  I  smelled  smoke,"  said 
Campbell.  For  a  second  they  were  silent. 

"Don't  get  it,"  the  other  man  answered. 

Ten  feet  ahead  of  them  lay  a  dinner 
bucket  beside  the  rails,  where,  long  ago, 
on  the  night  of  the  fire,  some  miner  had 
dropped  it  in  his  flight.  The  cover  had 
fallen  off,  and  the  half-spilled  contents 
was  beaded  with  the  white  crust  of  decay. 
Campbell  kicked  it  with  his  foot,  and  the 
mass  rolled  out  into  the  ditch. 
5* 


FIRE-DAMP 

"  Never  did  get  to  eat  his  banana,"  he 
said. 

At  regular  intervals  they  passed  the 
black  openings  of  tunnels  that  turned  off 
from  the  main  entry.  Once  they  walked  a 
few  yards  up  into  one  of  the  cross  tunnels, 
but  a  sharp  pointing  of  the  tiny  yellow 
flames  in  their  safety  lamps  warned  them 
of  the  presence  of  gas,  and  they  stumbled 
back  to  the  main  track  and  continued. 

"What's  the  time?"  Sam  fumbled  in  his 
pocket,  and  distinctly  they  heard  the  clear, 
metallic  ticking  of  the  watch,  as  he  held  it 
up  in  the  lamplight. 

"Pretty  near  noon." 

"We'll  go  back,  I  reckon.  Can't  go  much 
further  now,  but  by  two  the  air  ought  to 
clear  it  out  enough  so  we  can  get  to  the 
heading." 

For  ten  minutes  they  tramped  silently 
back  along  the  rough  track,  and  then  turned 
53 


AMERICA  AT  WORK 

sharply  to  the  right.  One  hundred  feet  be- 
yond was  the  foot  of  the  hoisting  shaft. 
For  a  brief  second  they  stood  and  sniffed 
the  air. 

Suddenly,  far  off,  like  distant  thunder, 
came  a  sound  from  the  recesses  of  the  mine. 

"My  God!"  screamed  Campbell,  "she's 
let  go!" 

In  a  panic  of  fear  they  dashed  a  few  yards 
into  the  cross  cut,  and  flung  themselves, 
their  faces  buried  in  their  arms,  on  the  tun- 
nel floor.  Steady  and  unwinking  one  of  the 
safety  lamps  gleamed  where  it  had  fallen. 
A  heavy  vibration  trembled  on  the  air. 
The  far-off  thunder  boomed  louder  and 
nearer;  a  wild  tumult  of  sound  shrieked 
down  the  entry;  and  a  cyclone  blast  of 
wind,  black  with  its  pall  of  coal  dust,  spun 
them  like  dead  leaves  far  into  the  cross  cut. 
Fast  on  the  wind,  like  an  unleashing  of 
Hell,  came  a  wave  of  flame,  blanketed  in 
54 


FIRE-DAMP 

pitchy  smoke:  flame  incandescent  with 
light  and  heat:  flame  that  scorched  the 
gleaming  walls  of  coal  into  blackened  coke, 
and  brushing  with  its  fiery  touch  the  oak 
beams  and  props,  blackened  and  charred 
them  in  the  brief  moment  of  its  flight. 

From  the  distant  entries  through  which 
it  had  passed  the  roar  of  the  falling  roof 
was  lost  in  the  thunder  of  the  flame  wave, 
as  it  hurled  itself  on  its  course  through  the 
mine  galleries  to  the  shaft  mouth. 

In  the  blackness  and  sudden  silence 
that  followed,  Campbell  lifted  himself  to 
his  knees.  The  lamps  were  extinguished; 
and  the  burned-out  air  seemed  thick  with 
intense  heat.  Groping  in  the  blackness  he 
crawled  until  he  encountered  the  walls  of 
the  cross  cut,  and  then,  turning,  followed 
it,  reaching  out  to  touch  it  after  each  con- 
vulsive effort.  Once  he  stopped  for  a  long 
minute;  it  was  Sam,  and  he  knew  that  he 
55 


AMERICA  AT  WORK 

was  dead.  A  sudden  animal  fear  of  death,  a 
tremendous  mustering  of  every  nerve  and 
sinew  to  resist,  seized  him.  In  the  vitiated 
atmosphere  and  in  utter  blackness  he  con- 
tinued. Something  seemed  to  flicker  like 
electric  flashes  before  his  eyes,  and  softly  he 
sank  down  between  the  rails.  For  in  from 
the  far  tunnels  of  the  mine  poured  the  poi- 
sonous after-damp:  the  deadly  gas  which 
follows  an  explosion. 


VII 

SKYSCRAPER 

THE  old  brick  building  had  vanished 
before  the  wreckers  in  a  cloud  of 
broken  brick  and  plaster.  From  my  win- 
dow I  could  look  down  into  the  cavity 
which  had  held  it.  Already  the  muddy 
floor  was  dotted  with  the  toadstool  tents  of 
the  excavators,  and  day  and  night  unceas- 
ingly wagon-loads  of  sticky  clay  and  mud 
dragged  up  the  incline  to  the  street.  Far 
down  in  the  stifling  air  of  the  caissons  the 
concrete  roots  were  being  planted,  tied  with 
cement  and  steel  to  the  very  core  of  the 
world. 

The  foundations  were  finished  and  the 
first  thin  steel  columns  stretched  upward. 
In  a  day  they  multiplied.  A  hundred  black 
57 


AMERICA  AT  WORK 

shoots  pierced  the  soil ;  a  hundred  sprouting 
shoots,  in  even  rows,  like  a  well-planted 
garden.  In  ordered  plan  the  crossbeams  fell 
into  their  places,  and  the  great  lattice  of 
the  substructure  shaped  itself.  Then,  above 
the  uproar  and  vibration  of  the  street,  rose 
the  angry  clatter  of  the  pneumatic  riveters, 
steel  against  steel  in  a  shattering  reverbera- 
tion. 

With  incredible  rapidity  the  gaunt  frame 
piled  upward.  On  the  topmost  story  the 
derricks  crouched  like  giant  spiders,  thin 
legs  firmly  braced  against  post  and  I-beam, 
casting  their  threads  of  steel  softly  to  the 
distant  street  to  take  a  dozen  tons  of  girders 
in  their  grasp  and  lift  them,  gently  turning, 
to  the  top.  Against  the  pale  sky  the  black 
ribs  of  the  building  surged  higher.  As 
through  prison  bars  I  saw  the  distant  blue 
of  the  harbor;  the  familiar  view  had  van- 
ished; a  miracle  had  transformed  it.  Un- 
58 


SKYSCRAPER 

tiring,  hour  after  hour,  the  derricks  lifted 
bales  of  steel  to  swing  into  their  destined 
place ;  and  as  each  new  story  was  bolted 
down  the  derricks  lifted  themselves  heavily 
to  the  new  level,  clean  cut  against  the  sky, 
above  the  highest  towers  of  the  city. 
\  ^Like  beetles  the  steel-workers  clambered 
surefooted  over  the  empty  frame.  Far  out 
on  the  end  of  narrow  beams  they  hung 
above  the  void ;  on  the  tops  of  slender  col- 
umns they  clung,  waiting  to  swing  into 
place  a  ton  of  steel.  Braced  against  nothing 
but  empty  space,  they  pounded  red-hot 
rivets  with  their  clattering  hammers;  like 
flies  they  caught  the  slim-spun  threads  of 
the  derricks  and  swung  up  to  some  inac- 
cessible height.  On  flimsy  platforms  the 
glow  of  their  forges  blinked  red  in  the  twi- 
light. 

I  am  thinking  also  of  other  workers:  of 
men  who  measured  this  tall  tower  on  their 
59 


AMERICA  AT  WORK 

v  slide-rules,  of  grimy  workers  who  followed 
*  their  mystic  blue-prints  and  made  each 
piece  with  such  fine  precision  that  the  great 
masses  of  steel  fell  softly  into  their  final 
place  with  hairbreadth  accuracy,  rivet-hole 
to  rivet-hole,  and  tongue  in  groove.  Engi- 
neers, who  foresaw  each  bolt  and  fitted  so 
perfectly  mass  on  mass  with  only  imagina- 
tion and  their  books  of  figures  to  guide  them ; 
workers  in  the  steel  mills  of  the  distant  city 
who  moulded  each  beam  and  pillar  to  go 
together  like  a  watch,  —  theirs  is  the  silent 
forgotten  labor! 

Day  faded  in  fog  and  darkness.   Black- 
blurred,  the  frame  of  the  skyscraper  rose  in 
the  gray  of  the  mist  and  the  shadow  of  the 
X          night.   Through  the  tangle  of  its  skeleton 
frame  the  flaming  red  and  yellow  of  an  elec- 
tric sign  spattered  a  trail  of  jeweled  fire 
against  the  sky.   Another,  with  a  flash  of 
myriad  color,  shone  and  was  gone.    Far 
60 


SKYSCRAPER 

down  in  the  streets  the  glare  of  automobile 
lights  stroked  the  gleaming  blackness  of  the 
pavement.  From  surrounding  buildings  the 
glitter  of  countless  windows  shone  brightly 
through  the  mist.  But  high  above  the  fire- 
fly activity  of  the  city  the  black  frame  of 
the  skyscraper  touched  the  starless  sky. 
Like  beacon  fires  the  forges  of  the  workers 
glowed  intermittently,  panting  breaths  of 
red,  half  smothered  in  the  approaching 
night.  In  graceful  curves,  like  tiny  comets, 
the  heated  rivets,  tossed  from  forge  to  the 
waiting  bucket  of  the  riveter,  gleamed  yel- 
low and  vanished.  I  thought  of  Whistler's 
nocturnes ;  of  the  fireworks  at  Cremorne. 

I  stood  on  the  rough  staging  of  the  top 
floor  of  the  tower.  Above,  the  light  steel 
ribs  of  the  dome  met  in  a  heavy  rosette  from 
which  a  flagpole  pointed  to  the  drifting 
clouds.  Standing  on  its  base  a  man  was 
arranging  the  tackle  which  would  lift  him 
61 


AMERICA  AT  WORK 

up  the  slender  mast,  to  paint  it,  or  gild  the 
ball  at  its  tip.  He  saw  me  and  leaned  down. 

"Come  up/'  he  shouted. 

I  climbed  the  ladder  and,  with  his  arm 
to  steady  me,  crawled  out  above  the  dome. 
There  was  room  for  my  feet  beside  his.  I 
heard  him  laughing  beside  me. 

"Don't  break  off  that  pole,  I've  got  to 
climb  it." 

I  looked  down.  The  curving  ribs  of  the 
dome  ended  in  a  shallow  comiice  twenty 
feet  below.  That  was  all.  Far  down  the 
roofs  of  neighboring  buildings  lay  flat  and 
small  in  the  sunlight.  Like  the  great  black 
matrix  for  a  printed  page  the  roofs  and 
streets  extended  to  the  harbor  and  the  hills ; 
like  column  rules  the  shallow  grooves  of 
avenues  cut  sharply  the  solid  lines  of  the 
side  streets.  Here  and  there  were  the  open 
spaces  of  public  squares ;  far  off,  the  green 
sweep  of  a  city  park.  And  everywhere 
62 


SKYSCRAPER 

above  the  roofs  wisps  of  steam  and  smoke 
lay  softly  on  the  breeze.  Like  crooked  fin- 
gers the  wharves  caught  the  edge  of  the 
harbor;  the  water  was  a  quivering  green, 
dotted  with  toy  boats  that  crossed  and  re- 
crossed  like  water-insects,  leaving  a  churn 
of  white  behind  them  and  a  smear  of  smoke 
above. 

Straight  down  in  the  street  the  cars 
crawled  jerkily  in  two  thin  lines,  the 
beetle-backed  roofs  inch  long  in  the  dis- 
tance. And  everywhere  were  the  moving 
dots  of  people,  swarming  upon  the  pave- 
ment. 

It  was  very  still.  Far  below,  the  noises 
of  the  street,  the  living  cry  of  the  city,  rose 
like  the  murmur  of  a  river  in  a  deep  canon.* 
Beside  me,  the  steeple-jack  leaned  easily 
against  the  mast,  his  eyes  watching  the 
distant  glimmer  of  the  sea.  I  looked  up 
and  the  slowly  moving  clouds  seemed 

63 


AMERICA  AT  WORK 

suddenly  to  stand  still,  the  tower  took  up 
the  motion,  and  racing  across  the  sky,  the 
flagpole  seemed  bending  to  the  earth. 

Down  in  the  street  I  joined  the  crowd  on 
the  sidewalk,  necks  bent  back  to  watch  a 
tiny  speck  at  the  top  of  the  thin  shaft  of 
the  flagpole. 

"Pretty  high  up,"  said  some  one. 

"Yes,"  answered  another,  "but  they're 
putting  in  the  foundation  for  a  higher  one 
on  the  corner." 


VIII 

DYNAMITE; 

ISOLATED  and  avoided,  the  high  ex- 
plosive plant  lies  half  hidden  in  a  waste 
of  sloughs  and  sand  dunes.  Like  the  barren 
country  that  surrounds  it,  the  plant  itself 
seems  a  part  of  desolate  nature,  stunted 
and  storm-beaten  as  the  wind-swept  hills. 
Against  the  straight  line  of  the  horizon  rise 
no  massive  structures  of  steel  or  stone ;  no 
sound  of  man  or  machine  breaks  the  soft 
stillness;  no  smoke  clouds  stain  the  blue  of 
the  autumn  sky.  Half  buried  in  the  rolling 
sand  a  hundred  small  green  buildings  scat- 
ter in  wild  disorder  along  winding  paths 
among  the  scrub  oaks.  The  voices  of  un- 
disturbed wild  fowl  rise  from  the  fens  and 
marsh  land. 

65 


AMERICA  AT  WORK 

In  the  little  office  at  the  gate  I  left  my 
matches  and  put  on  a  pair  of  soft  wooden- 
pegged  powder  shoes.  Outside,  the  faint 
flavor  of  last  night's  frost  freshened  the 
morning  air,  and  above  the  red  and  yellow 
of  the  scrub  oaks  the  autumn  sun  was  shin- 
ing in  a  pale-blue  sky. 

At  my  side  the  superintendent  was  ex- 
plaining the  processes  of  manufacture  I 
was  soon  to  see,  but  my  mind  was  curiously 
unresponsive ;  in  the  peace  of  the  morning 
air  an  ominous  presence  seemed  to  surround 
me;  an  invisible  force  that  needed  but  a 
spark  or  the  slightest  impulse  to  awaken  it, 
annihilating  and  devastating  in  its  sudden 
fury. 

Beyond  the  office,  like  the  letter  "S"  a 
high  sand  dune  bent  in  a  general  east  and 
west  direction,  a  sweep  of  marsh  land  in 
each  sheltering  curve.  Against  the  outer 
bank  of  its  first  wide  crescent  the  small 
66 


DYNAMITE 

power  plant  and  a  row  of  red  one-story 
buildings  marked  a  single  street.  From  the 
open  door  of  the  power  house  the  rhythmic 
drone  of  a  generator  accentuated  the  still- 
ness. Down  a  track  between  the  buildings 
a  horse  plodded  slowly  over  the  worn  ties, 
dragging  a  small  flat  car,  the  driver  leaning 
lazily  against  one  of  the  uprights  which 
supported  a  dingy  awning. 

The  manufacture  of  dynamite  consists  of 
two  separate  processes,  which  are  con- 
ducted individually  up  to  a  certain  point, 
when  their  products  meet  and  by  their 
union  the  actual  dynamite  is  produced. 
In  the  little  buildings  by  the  power  house 
the  first  of  these  products  was  in  course  of 
manufacture.  Here  the  fine  wood  dust, 
mixed  with  other  materials,  was  prepared, 
an  absorbent  to  hold  the  nitroglycerine 
which  was  being  made  a  half-mile  be- 
yond the  nearest  sand  dune.  Packed  in 


AMERICA  AT  WORK 

paper  cartridges  the  nitroglycerine-soaked 
"dope/*  or  sawdust,  is  called  by  a  single 
name  —  Dynamite. 

In  two  great  open  pans  slowly  revolving 
paddles  were  turning  over  and  over  a  mass 
of  wood  pulp,  fine  and  soft  as  snow.  The 
room  was  warm  from  the  sunshine  on  the 
low  roof  and  the  drying  fires  below  the 
pans;  there  was  a  strong,  clean  smell  of 
sawdust.  The  building  was  deserted ;  unat- 
tended the  paddles  swung  noiselessly  with 
the  low  sound  of  well-oiled  machinery. 

Inside  the  next  building  a  couple  of  men 
were  weighing  great  measures  of  white 
powder  from  bins  along  the  wall.  The  super- 
intendent picked  up  a  printed  slip  from  a 
desk  by  the  window. 

"Nitrate  of  soda,  nitrate  of  ammonia, 
wood  pulp,  marble  dust.  That's  the  for- 
mula for  this  batch.  Sometimes  we  put  in 
sulphur,  or  flour,  or  magnesium  carbonate. 
68 


DYNAMITE 

It's  all  according  to  what  kind  of  explosive 
is  wanted;  what  it's  to  be  used  for." 

Far  down  at  the  end  of  the  little  street 
the  strong,  hot  smell  of  paraffine  hung 
heavy  in  the  air.  Inside,  against  the  walls 
of  the  building,  the  paper  cartridges  were 
drying;  racks  of  waxed  yellow  tubes  half 
filled  the  building. 

Here  the  first  process  of  manufacture  was 
completed.  Stable  and  harmless,  the  fra- 
grant wood  dust  was  being  prepared  for  its 
union  with  that  strange  evanescent  spirit 
which  would  endow  it  with  powers  of  light- 
ning strength  and  rapidity. 
•  With  our  powder  shoes  sinking  in  the 
sliding  sand  we  climbed  the  path  to  the 
top  of  the  hill  which  marked  the  center  of 
the  twisted  dune.  On  its  summit  the  frame 
building  of  the  nitrater  notched  the  sky. 
Here,  in  the  silence  between  earth  and 
clouds,  a  mighty  force  was  seeking  birth. 
69 


AMERICA  AT  WORK 

Perched  on  a  high  stool,  an  old  man  in 
overalls  bent  intently  over  the  top  of  a 
great  tank,  his  eyes  fixed  on  a  thermometer 
that  protruded  from  its  cover.  Above,  a 
shaft  and  slowly  turning  wheels  moved 
quietly  in  the  shadows  of  the  roof.  There 
was  a  splashing  of  churning  liquid,  and 
the  bite  of  acid  sharpened  the  air.  The  old 
man  turned  his  head  for  a  moment  to  nod 
to  us.  Below  his  feet  a  coil  of  pipes  white 
with  a  thick  frost  rime  entered  the  bottom 
of  the  tank,  a  cooling  solution  to  keep  the 
temperature  of  the  churning  acid  within 
the  limit  of  safety. 

As  we  stepped  inside  the  doorway,  the 
splashing  grew  louder;  the  bitter  reek  of 
the  acid  seemed  to  scorch  my  nostrils. 
Slowly  the  old  man  turned  a  valve  be- 
side him  and  a  thick  trickle  of  glycerine 
flowed  heavily  into  an  opening  in  the  top 
of  the  tank.  Inside  the  blackened  caldron 
70 


DYNAMITE 

a  strange  transformation  was  in  progress. 
Were  the  glycerine  allowed  to  become  com- 
pletely nitrated  by  the  acid  the  windows  of 
the  distant  city  would  rattle  in  the  blast 
that  would  surely  follow.  Carefully,  the 
nitrating  must  be  brought  almost  to  that 
danger-point  and  abruptly  arrested;  so 
near,  that  later  in  the  form  of  dynamite  the 
nitrating  could  be  instantly  completed  and 
the  desired  explosion  obtained  by  the  jar- 
ring impulse  of  an  electric  spark.  Like  a 
child  pushing  a  dish  to  poise  on  the  table 
edge  the  old  man  was  bringing  this  dynamic 
mixture  to  a  precarious  balance. 

The  superintendent  pointed  to  a  cistern 
filled  with  water  behind  the  nitrater. 

"Before  we  had  the  brine  pipes  to  keep 
the  acid  cool,  it  used  to  heat  up  occasion- 
ally. It  gives  up  red  fumes  when  it  passes 
the  danger-point.  You  ought  to  see  the 
quick  work  Old  Charley  used  to  do, — 


AMERICA  AT  WORK 

open  that  faucet  in  the  nitrater  to  let  the 
acid  and  glycerine  dump  into  the  cistern 
and  drown;  blow  the  alarm  whistle,  and 
then  everybody  beat  it!" 

The  old  man  looked  up  from  the  ther- 
mometer. "She's  ready." 

Deliberately  he  climbed  down  from  the 
stool  and  opened  a  switch  behind  him;  the 
splashing  of  the  paddles  ceased ;  the  process 
was  completed. 

Behind  the  tank  an  earthenware  faucet 
opened  into  a  long  lead  gutter  that  passed 
out  of  the  building.  Fascinated,  I  watched 
him  as  he  slowly  turned  the  handle.  From 
the  spout  a  stream  of  viscous  liquid  gushed 
noisily  and  flowed  off  in  a  sullen  current. 

"Nitroglycerine,"  —  the  superintendent 
pointed  his  finger  at  the  splashing  stream; 
"of  course,  it's  impure  now,  mixed  with 
acid.  We'll  see  it  purified  in  the  separating- 
houses." 

72 


DYNAMITE 

I  was  disappointed.  Vaguely  I  had  ex- 
pected something  would  happen ;  how  could 
this  dull,  oily  liquid  be  that  fearful  thing 
that  had  been  represented. 

"There's  enough  in  that  trough  now  to 
wreck  a  battleship/'  he  added. 

Under  the  crest  of  a  curving  hill  a  half- 
mile  away,  was  the  mix  house.  From  the 
nitrater  we  had  followed  the  nitroglycerine 
through  the  dangerous  process  of  its  separa- 
tion from  the  acid,  its  perfect  neutraliza- 
tion. Here,  at  last,  the  explosive  fluid  would 
assume  its  final  form.  Mixed  with  the  ab- 
sorbent dope,  in  a  crumby  consistency  it 
would  become  dynamite. 

The  sunshine  filled  the  little  room  with 
yellow  light;  a  blue  fly  buzzed  noisily 
against  the  window.  Facing  the  flat  marsh 
land  the  building  rested  in  a  deep  cut  in 
the  hillside ;  behind  it  the  solid  hill,  on  either 
side  an  artificial  embankment  or  barricade 
73 


AMERICA  AT  WORK 

of  sand  and  timber.  In  the  center  of  the 
room  was  a  cumbersome  machine  like  an 
archaic  mill  for  crushing  grain.  Hung  from 
an  axle  revolving  on  a  perpendicular  cen- 
tral shaft,  two  great  wooden  wheels,  four 
feet  in  diameter,  rested  in  a  circular  trough ; 
a  pair  of  giant  cart  wheels  with  broad, 
smooth  tires  of  pine. 

There  was  a  sound  outside  the  building. 
Down  a  boardwalk  that  disappeared  behind 
a  hill  in  the  direction  of  the  separating- 
house,  came  a  man  pushing  a  square  wagon 
completely  covered  with  rubber  blankets, 
—  three  hundred  pounds  of  nitroglycerine. 

Swiftly  the  two  workmen  filled  the  circu- 
lar trough  with  the  prepared  wood  pulp. 
The  wagon  was  trundled  softly  into  the 
room.  From  a  tank  in  the  corner  a  measure 
of  brown,  sweet-smelling,  aromatic  oil  was 
mixed  into  the  contents  of  the  cart. 

Something  was  going  to  happen.  A  sud- 
74 


DYNAMITE 

den  impulse  to  run  before  it  was  too  late 
seized  me.  The  cart  was  pushed  beside  the 
trough.  From  a  hose  in  its  base  a  heavy 
brown  fluid  gushed  over  the  powdery  dope. 
Slowly  the  steady  stream  became  a  trickle 
and  ceased. 

There  was  a  faint  sound  and  I  knew  that 
the  current  was  thrown  in;  the  great  axle 
began  to  revolve  on  the  shaft.  One  and 
then  the  other,  the  giant  wheels  turned 
heavily.  Under  the  advancing  ploughs  the 
brown  stain  of  nitroglycerine  faded  in  the 
yellow  of  the  dope.  Round  and  round; 
heavily  the  smooth  wheels  pressed  the  ffoc- 
culent  mass,  cleanly  the  sharp  ploughs 
turned  furrows  behind  them  —  Dynamite. 

I  started  violently  at  the  voice  of  the 
superintendent.  It  seemed  hours  instead 
of  minutes  since  this  death-taunting  ma- 
chine had  begun;  hours  in  which  each  sec- 
ond might  bring  annihilation. 
75 


AMERICA  AT  WORK 

"It's  mixed." 

The  wheels  ceased  to  revolve.  With 
wooden  shovels  the  workmen  scooped  the 
dynamite  from  the  trough  and  pitched  it 
into  fiber  cans,  as  big  as  barrels. 

As  though  built  to  withstand  the  siege 
guns  of  an  enemy,  the  dugouts  of  the  pack- 
ers faced  the  marsh  in  a  long  straggling  line 
against  the  hillside.  Like  the  mix  house, 
each  building  sank  deep  into  the  sandbank, 
its  sides  protected  by  enveloping  barricades. 

In  each  small  cell  two  men  were  working. 
There  was  little  talking.  Silence  hung  heavy 
over  the  hills  and  marsh  land;  a  strange 
blending  of  peace  and  terror  that  made 
harsh  sounds  improper  and  jarring  to  the 
senses. 

With  quick  dexterity  the  empty  paper 
tubes,  that  I  had  seen  manufactured  when 
I  first  began  this  perilous  journey,  were  in- 
serted in  the  packing-machine.  An  abrupt 


DYNAMITE 

movement,  and  they  were  packed  with  dy- 
namite and  laid  in  boxes  beside  the  workers. 

I  picked  up  one  of  the  "sticks"  from  a 
half-filled  box.  "Stump  Dynamite." 

Hour  after  hour,  day  after  day,  the  filled 
boxes  were  trundled  down  the  board  walk 
to  the  magazine.  "Stump  Dynamite."  I 
had  always  thought  of  this  great  industry 
as  a  destructive  agency,  of  high  explosives 
as  carriers  of  death  and  desolation.  But 
where  the  forests  have  vanished  before  the 
axes  of  the  woodmen,  dynamite  is  clear- 
ing fields  for  the  next  year's  planting.  In 
the  black  entries  of  the  mine  the  undercut 
coal-face  falls  shattered  at  the  blast  of  the 
explosives.  Through  the  walls  of  mountain 
ranges  it  is  tearing  loose  the  solid  rock,  that 
trains  may  some  day  follow  the  level  rails ; 
through  blasted  tunnels  flows  water  to  / 
moisten  the  lips  of  a  parching  city;  from  r* 
ocean  to  ocean  it  has  opened  a  giant  cut 
77 


AMERICA  AT  WORK 

that  deep-sea  vessels  may  carry  their  car- 
goes by  shorter  routes;  deep  under  the 
strata  of  the  earth's  crust  its  sudden  shock 
shakes  the  oil-well  into  life;  its  rending 
breath  tears  the  red  ore  of  iron  from  the 
living  rock. 

Labors  of  Hercules !  What  are  the  feats 
of  the  earthborn  son  of  Jupiter  to  the  mighty  \ 
wonders  accomplished  by  this  tabloid  thun- 
derbolt. Death  and  destruction  may  come 
from  its  sharp  detonation,  but  for  every 
life  that  goes  out  in  siege  or  battle  a  hun- 
dred lives  are  sustained  by  its  quiet  labor  in 
field  or  mine. 

The  afternoon  sun  was  setting  behind  a 
mist  of  autumn  clouds.  In  the  silence  of  the 
dunes  and  marsh  the,  clear  call  of  a  bird 
sounded  sharp  and  silver-tuned  in  a  run  o 
hurried  melody.  . 


IX 

THE   MILLS 

FROM  the  car-windows,  as  the  train 
crosses  the  arched  stone  bridge,  you 
can  see  the  mills  piled  high  above  the  south 
bank  of  the  river.  Vast  and  dingy,  the 
broken  roofline  notches  high  against  the 
blue  Minnesota  sky.  Like  the  battlements 
of  some  feudal  castle,  the  stone  and  brick 
walls  tower  upward,  here  and  there  the 
square  shaft  of  a  grain-storage  tank  rising 
turret-like  above  the  roofs.  At  the  foot  of 
the  cliff,  although  the  mills  seem  to  rise  ab- 
ruptly from  the  very  edge  of  the  water,  the 
river  courses  in  bent  and  broken  streams, 
diverted  and  trained  in  the  harness  of 
industry;  through  a  hundred  mill-races 
in  thick  black  torrents;  a  white  blue 
79 


AMERICA  AT  WORK 

shimmer  over  the  apron-dam  across  the 
river. 

Gathering  strength  in  every  mile  of  its 
course,  the  great  river,  rising  in  the  silent 
waters  of  Itasca  to  pour  a  torrent  twenty- 
five  hundred  miles  away  into  the  Gulf  of 
Mexico,  pauses  here  for  a  brief  minute  to 
stroke  into  life  the  mighty  turbines  of  the 
flour-mills.  Above  the  dams  that  hold  the 
river  in  check,  the  water,  deep  and  silent, 
floods  back  between  wide  banks ;  below  the 
tail-races  of  the  mills  it  spurts  noisily  in  a 
shallow  bed,  far  down  between  high  bluffs 
of  weathered  stone.  But  at  the  falls  the 
mills,  silent  and  apparently  devoid  of  life 
or  activity,  mark  the  measure  of  its  flow. 
And  from  that  ceaseless  flowing  energy 
comes  the  power  to  grind  the  grain  for  a  * 
nation's  bread. 

Like  a  shelf  against  a  wall  the  railroad 
tracks  cling  to  the  cliff.  Above  the  clanking 
80 


THE  MILLS 

of  freight  cars  and  the  mutter  of  the  river, 
a  vibrant  murmur  of  myriad  muffled  wheels 
fills  the  shadow  of  the  mills.  Beside  the 
tracks  thin  streaks  of  wheat  gleam  yellow 
on  the  grimy  ballast.  Here  two  great  floods 
are  meeting!  From  the  flat  reaches  of  the 
Dakotas,  from  the  wheat  lands  of  Minne- 
sota and  the  rolling  fields  of  Montana,  from 
Manitoba,  Saskatchewan,  and  the  banks 
of  the  Athabaska,  the  tide  of  grain  is  at  the 
flood.  Unceasing,  mightier  by  far  than  the 
"  father  of  waters,"  one  hundred  thousand 
freight  cars,  fat  and  heavy  with  their  rich 
lading,  are  emptying  the  season's  harvest. 
And  from  the  shipping  platforms  fifteen 
million  barrels  of  flour  go  out  each  year  into 
the  markets  of  the  world. 

The  freight  cars  are  unloading.    From 

the  wide  doors  the  scoops  are  pushing  a 

stream  of  yellow  grain.  Like  liquid  it  pours 

over  the  car-sills  and  down  between  the 

81 


AMERICA  AT  WORK 

steel  grills  beside  the  tracks.  Never  has 
the  touch  of  human  hands  defiled  it.  Born 
of  the  soil,  it  has  been  reaped  and  winnowed 
by  the  clean  blades  of  wood  and  steel;  never 
in  the  long  process  which  will  transform  it 
into  flour,  will  the  touch  of  man's  hand 
stain  its  perfect  purity. 

From  bins  below  the  tracks,  endless  con- 
veyors were  already  gathering  the  grain 
in  a  long  flow  upward,  up  above  the  mill- 
roofs,  far  up  to  the  tops  of  giant  elevators, 
there  to  fall,  a  vast  measured  treasure,  into 
the  storage  tanks  beneath.  With  the  assist- 
ant head  miller,  I  climbed  slowly  to  the 
top.  The  windows  were  misted  with  the 
dust  of  harvest,  and  even  at  that  great 
height  there  was  a  fine  powder  of  ivory 
flour  on  the  floor  and  ledges.  He  pushed  up 
a  window.  In  the  warm  afternoon  sunlight 
the  mill-roofs  lay  below  me.  Far  down  be- 
yond, the  river,  blue  and  sparkling,  swirled 
82 


THE  MILLS 

in  soft  eddies  about  the  dams  and  forebays. 
Beyond,  the  city  stretched  away  to  the 
rolling  green  of  the  low  hills.  And  above 
was  the  blue  of  a  cloudless  sky. 

Here,  almost  two  hundred  and  fifty  years 
ago,  the  captive  Hennepin  dedicated  to  his 
patron,  St..  Anthony  of  Padua,  these  falls 
where  for  so  many  years,  in  a  cavern  be- 
neath, had  dwelt  that  Great  Unk-te-hee 
who  created  both  man  and  earth.  Gone  is 
the  guileful  father  of  the  Recollets ;  gone  are 
the  Sioux,  whose  tepees  clustered  about  the 
cataract ;  gone  even  is  that  sheer  leap  of  the 
river  down  forty  feet,  where  now  the  low 
slant  of  the  apron-dam  smooths  the  water 
in  its  descent.  The  ranges  of  the  buffalo  are 
rich  with  golden  grain.  It  pours  through 
the  grills  beside  the  elevators.  From  the 
skein  of  mazing  tracks  the  wail  of  a  freight 
engine  shrills  loud  and  clamorous. 

A  conveyor  was  lifting  grain  from  one 

83 


AMERICA  AT  WORK 

of  the  tanks;  on  an  endless  belt  it  passed 
through  a  long  high-swung  gallery  from 
the  elevators  to  the  mill.  We  followed  to 
watch  its  progress.  At  the  far  end  of  the 
gallery  the  crawling  belt  with  its  steady 
rivulet  of  grain  entered  the  top  floor  of  the 
mill  and  disappeared  in  a  ponderous  ma- 
chine. Above  the  roar  of  belts  and  wheels 
the  miller  called  to  me.  His  hand  was  filled 
with  stones  and  nails  and  little  flakes  of 
wood,  a  heterogeneous  mass  of  refuse.  Here 
the  grain  was  cleaned,  all  foreign  impurities 
removed.  Across  the  low  ceiling,  up  and 
down,  slanting  at  every  angle,  the  "legs," 
long  boxlike  tubes  through  which  the  flour 
is  carried  from  floor  to  floor,  cluttered  the 
great  room.  Down  the  center  a  battery  of 
strange  objects,  bristling  with  rings  of  pipes 
like  spokes  in  a  row  of  rimless  wheels,  flut- 
tered with  unseen  life.  They  looked  like  a 
misshapen  organ,  and  I  half  expected  to 
84 


THE   MILLS 

hear  the  notes  of  some  strange  music  echo 
from  the  pipes.  The  dust-collectors. 

On  the  floor  below,  the  maze  of  the  legs 
grew  more  bewildering.  Here  the  purifiers 
were  ranged  in  mighty  companies,  and  the 
fine  white  smoke  of  flour  tinged  the  air. 
Like  soft  snow  it  dusted  my  shoulders. 
The  miller  pushed  back  a  slide  in  one  of 
the  machines;  within,  a  reel  of  silk  was 
slowly  turning,  and  through  its  fine  meshes 
the  flour  sifted  continuously.  He  scooped 
up  a  handful  and  held  it  out  to  me.  It 
seemed  fine  and  white,  but  the  grinding  and 
purifying  were  only  half  completed. 

Every  machine  was  in  quiet  motion. 
But  the  mill  seemed  deserted.  On  the  vast 
floors  a  few  men  wandered  in  and  out 
among  the  machines.  In  the  mellow  half- 
light  and  the  comparative  stillness,  un- 
aided, almost  unattended,  these  stolid 
workers  of  wood  and  steel  performed  their 
85 


AMERICA  AT  WORK 

laborious  functions.  In  the  apparent  con- 
fusion of  a  perfect  system,  all  natural  order 
seemed  reversed :  up  a  floor  or  two  through 
the  twisting  legs,  the  flour  flowed  to  the 
next  machine,  then  back  again,  and  again 
up  to  a  higher  floor.  It  was  incomprehen- 
sible. The  scheme  was  lost  in  the  multiplic- 
ity of  operations. 

The  monotony  of  the  murmuring  ma- 
chines was  suddenly  broken.  Wearied  of 
only  the  silent  turning  of  hidden  wheels,  a 
roomful  of  huge  barrel-like  creatures  sus- 
pended between  roof  and  floor  had  burst 
suddenly  into  impassioned  life.  Reeling 
and  swaying  like  drunken  dancers,  the 
bolters  vibrated  with  angry  tumult.  In  their 
allotted  places  they  dizzily  shook  their 
dusty  sides,  flinging  madly  about  in  a  ro- 
N  tary  motion. 

The  days  of  the  big  mill-stones  have  van- 
ished; corrugated  steel-rolls  have  usurped 
86 


THE  MILLS 

their  places.  In  aisles,  the  roller-mills  filled 
the  floor,  like  stocky  pianos  in  a  salesroom. 
Between  the  fine  teeth  of  the  long  steel  rolls 
the  clean  grain  flaked  to  flour.  Here  a  series 
crushed  the  outer  husk  of  the  wheat  berry; 
another  battery  ground  fine  the  clean  meal; 
and  still  others  there  were,  each  grinding 
finer  and  finer,  endlessly.  And  between 
these  grindings  came  the  processes  I  had 
seen  above,  scouring,  bolting,  separating, 
and  purifying. 

Beyond  the  open  doors  of  the  shipping 
platforms  long  lines  of  freight  cars  were 
waiting,  half  filled  with  sacks  and  barrels  of 
flour.  Here  at  last  was  life  and  activity.  In 
white  caps  and  uniforms  the  millers  were 
packing  the  finished  product.  Between 
high-piled  sacks,  trucks  trundled  noisily. 
The  floor  was  white  with  flour.  On  slow- 
moving  belts  the  filled  sacks  passed  out 
from  beneath  machines  which  filled  and 
87 


AMERICA  AT  WORK 

weighed  the  contents  to  the  fraction  of  an 
ounce.  With  long  looping  stitches  the  sew- 
ers fastened  the  tops. 

Beside  the  door  two  huge  mill-stones  lay 
half  buried  in  the  earth.  With  the  wander- 
ing father  of  the  Recollets,  they  were  al- 
ready but  memories  of  a  mighty  past.  Be- 
hind the  city  the  sun  had  set  in  a  strong, 
clear,  yellow  light.  Up  in  the  mill-windows, 
electric  lights  were  twinkling.  The  night 
run  had  begun.  Ceaselessly,  day  and  night, 
forever,  to  grind  corn  for  a  nation's  bread. 


X 

TELEPHONE 

THERE  was  a  continuous  sound  of 
many  voices;  a  steady  cadence  in 
which  no  individual  note  dominated ;  a  hun- 
dred women's  voices  incessantly  repeating 
brief  sentences  with  a  rising  inflection  at 
the  end,  each  sentence  lost  in  the  continuous 
tumult  of  sound.  In  a  long  line,  perched  on 
high  stools,  they  sat  before  the  black  panels 
which  rose  behind  their  narrow  desk.  Into 
the  transmitters — hung  from  their  necks — 
they  articulated  their  strange  confused  cho- 
rus. And  apparently  without  relation  to  the 
words  they  uttered,  a  hundred  pairs  of  hands 
reached  back  and  forth  across  the  panels, 
weaving  interminably  a  never-to-be-com- 
pleted pattern  on  its  finely  checkered  face. 
89 


AMERICA  AT  WORK 

On  the  panels  a  thousand  little  lights 
blinked  white  and  disappeared.  Tiny  sparks 
of  ruby  and  green  flashed  and  were  gone. 
Untiring,  the  white  stars  flickered  in  and 
out,  and  behind  them  raced  the  tireless 
hands,  weaving  a  strange  pattern  with  the 
long  green  cords.  And  unbroken,  unintelli- 
gible, the  murmur  of  the  girls'  voices  vi- 
brated unceasingly. 

Outside,  under  the  gray  sky  of  a  rainy 
day,  the  life  of  the  city  was  at  the  flood. 
Over  slim  wires,  buried  in  conduits  below 
the  trampled  street,  or  high  strung,  swing- 
ing in  the  rising  wind,  the  voices  of  a  thou- 
sand people  told  their  thousand  messages 
to  waiting  ears.  A  passing  thought,  per- 
haps, that  you  would  have  me  hear ;  with  a 
single  movement  you  lift  the  transmitter 
from  the  hook  beside  you ;  white  flashes  the 
tiny  lamp  on  the  black  panel;  a  girl's  hand 
sweeps  across  the  board  and  plugs  in  the 
90 


TELEPHONE 

connection.  Space,  useless,  is  swept  aside; 
though  actual  miles  may  intervene  I  am 
suddenly  beside  you. 

Messages  of  business  that  can  make  or 
ruin,  death,  love,  infidelity,  appeal!  Auto- 
matically, surely,  she  weaves  back  and 
forth  across  the  panels.  Clotho,  Lachesis, 
and  Atropos,  —  Parcae  of  the  switchboard! 

Here  is  the  throbbing  pulse  of  the  city 
bared  and  visible.  Night  is  over;  with  rap- 
idly increasing  frequency  the  flashing  drops 
of  light  indicate  that  the  activity  of  day  has 
begun.  Every  action  must  be  expressed  in 
words,  and,  bared  and  concentrated,  that 
word-current  of  the  city  rises  like  a  gather- 
ing wave.  From  ten  in  the  morning  to  five 
minutes  after,  the  tide  is  at  the  flood.  The 
flicker  of  lights  is  dazzling;  the  girls'  hands 
race  dizzily  behind  their  flashing  summons. 
Business  is  at  its  height.  But  here  on  an- 
other row  of  panels  the  occasional  flash  of 


AMERICA  AT  WORK 

lights  offers  a  curious  contrast:  this  is  a 
panel  for  a  part  of  the  residence  district; 
from  seven  to  eight  in  the  evening  its  lights 
will  glow  with  activity.  Then  business  is 
over  and  the  downtown  panels  will  be  dark- 
ened. Here  is  a  visual  shifting  of  scene  and 
interest.  Work  over,  the  social  engagements 
are  made,  and  business  is  forgotten.  There 
is  a  friendly  gossiping  along  the  wires. 

Night  has  come,  and  a  dozen  girls  watch 
the  long,  deserted  boards.  Like  the  occa- 
sional glimmer  of  a  cab  lamp  late  upon  the 
street,  the  signals,  one  by  one,  flash  and  are 
gone.  The  world  is  fast  asleep.  Far  down 
at  the  end  of  the  panel  a  signal  brightens. 
"Number  please?"— "Police!"  It  was  a 
woman's  voice.  From  the  card  index  "Cen- 
tral" picks  out  the  street  address  which  cor- 
responds to  the  number,  and  the  nearest  sta- 
tion is  advised  of  the  call.  Had  the  woman 
no  time  to  finish  her  message?  There  is 
92 


TELEPHONE 

another  light  burning  on  the  panel.  Al- 
ready she  is  forgotten  and  the  slim  hands 
are  making  another  connection.  Police  or 
doctor,  —  the  night  calls  are  laden  with 
portent. 

What  interests  the  world  to-day?  Does 
something  disturb  the  minds  of  men  ?  The 
flashing  panels  answer.  As  surely  as  the 
sun  will  rise  to-morrow  will  the  increased 
throb  of  light  betray  the  fevered  interest  of 
mankind.  Five  o'clock!  usually  there  is  a 
slacking  up,  but  not  to-day.  Heavier  than 
at  the  busiest  five  minutes  in  the  whole 
twenty-four  hours,  come  the  calls  for  con- 
nections. Did  the  White  Sox  win  their 
game  ?  It  is  the  final  of  the  series.  Who  was 
elected?  Politics  to-day  runs  high.  War? 
The  troops  are  off;  marines  have  landed! 
Strikes,  fires,  or  the  sinking  ship ;  the  racing 
hands  weave  faster;  the  steady  hum  of  the 
girls'  voices  accelerates  almost  impercep- 
93 


AMERICA  AT  WORK 

tibly.  Here  beats  the  pulse  upon  the  sur- 
face; they  know  its  normal  rise  and  fall;  by 
its  fevered  beat  they  can  read  diversion  or 
disaster. 

Back  over  the  years  the  superintendent 
recalled  the  various  events  which  had  been 
dramatically  visualized  on  the  switchboard 
panels.  Twelve  years  ago,  about;  the  pan- 
els were  fewer  then.  It  was  almost  five 
o'clock  in  the  afternoon;  in  a  quarter  of 
an  hour  the  day  operators  would  be  leav- 
ing, tired  from  their  long  labor  at  the  board. 
The  lights  were  flashing  slowly,  perfectly 
recording  the  slackened  beat  of  business. 
Five  minutes  to  five,  —  a  wave  of  white 
light  seemed  to  flare  across  the  downtown 
panels,  suddenly,  unexpectedly.  Ignorant 
of  the  cause,  the  girls  plugged  in  the  de- 
sired connections.  Every  one  seemed  to  be 
calling  out  to  the  residence  sections.  For 
a  brief  minute  there  was  a  pause  —  The 
94 


TELEPHONE 

flood  of  light  was  gone  as  abruptly  as  it  had 
come.  Then  like  a  flame  across  the  resi- 
dence panels  gleamed  the  signals,  calling 
back,  a  hundredfold,  back  to  the  stores  and 
offices. 

The  men  had  heard  first  the  terrible 
rumor.  Their  messages  across  the  wires  to 
their  homes  had  sought  the  answer  to  their 
first  thought  that  she,  that  they,  were  safe. 
And  then  back,  in  anguished  women's 
voices,  came  frantic  appeals  for  names  of 
the  missing.  For  long  hours  through  the 
night  the  white-faced  girls  held  to  their 
posts;  and  in  their  tired  eyes  the  signals 
burned  feverishly.  That  night  Chicago  i 
shuddered  in  its  grief,  —  for  in  the  flames 
of  the  Iroquois  Theatre,  at  a  holiday  mati- 
nee, had  gone  out  the  lives  of  countless 
women,  men,  and  little  children. 


XI 

FROM  A  THOUSAND  HILLS 

IT  was  two  o'clock  in  the  afternoon,  but 
already  the  gray  sky  of  a  raw  March  day 
seemed  to  carry  a  somber  twilight.  A  west 
wind  filled  the  heavy  air  with  the  smoke 
and  grime  of  the  city,  a  dark  pall  through 
which  shone  dimly  the  lights  in  the  office 
windows.  Dearborn  Street,  black  with 
melting  slush  and  congested  with  noonday 
traffic,  roared  its  deep,  masculine  mono- 
tone, the  clangor  of  street  cars  and  the 
shrill  whistles  of  the  traffic  policemen  rising 
in  higher  harmony  sharply  above  the 
steady  resonance.  To  the  east,  beneath  the 
black  structure  of  the  Elevated,  the  lake 
gleamed  a  white  square  at  the  street  end, 
cold  and  cheerless. 


FROM  A  THOUSAND  HILLS] 

Five  miles  from  the  business  district,  a 
deserted  tract  in  the  center  of  the  crowded 
city,  lie  the  stockyards.  Beyond  the  wide 
gate  a  road  stretches  indefinitely  into  the 
distance.  On  either  side,  above  the  high 
fences,  rises  here  and  there  the  irregular 
mass  of  great  brick  buildings,  breaking  de- 
fiantly the  perfect  level  of  acre  upon  acre  of 
fenced  inclosures.  As  I  entered  the  gate  a 
couple  of  men  on  horseback,  riding  with  the 
ease  of  cowboys,  galloped  past  me;  their 
boots  and  silver  spurs  branding  them  just 
in  from  the  plains  with  a  trainload  of  cattle. 

In  the  office  of  the  packing  plant,  lights 
were  burning.  Behind  a  desk  a  man  nodded 
at  my  request  and  called  a  guide,  and  to- 
gether we  passed  through  a  door  in  the  far 
end  of  the  room.  Low,  heavily  timbered 
roofs,  floors  soft  with  sawdust,  and  the  yel- 
low gleam  of  occasional  incandescent  lights 
shining  dimly  in  the  gloom  of  the  building 
97 


AMERICA  AT  WORK 

seemed  suddenly  to  fill  me  with  a  sense 
of  vast,  uninhabited  places.  We  stopped 
for  a  minute  before  a  long  table  piled  high  1 
with  hams  and  slabs  of  meat.  Two  men 
were  working  behind  it;  silently,  swiftly,  > 
and  automatically.  With  the  regularity 
of  clockwork  a  thin,  small-featured  man 
stabbed  each  piece  of  meat  as  it  passed 
before  him  and  sniffed  at  the  sharp  steel 
skewer  as  he  drew  it  forth.  At  the  end  of 
the  table  his  companion,  a  great  German  in 
a  white  linen  suit,  branded  the  smooth 
black  slabs  on  a  white-hot  die  which 
gleamed  from  the  table  top. 

"That's  the  government  inspector,"  ex- 
plained the  guide;  "smells  every  piece.  He 
can  tell  with  his  eyes  shut  if  anything  that 
ain't  A  number  i  comes  by." 

Slowly  we  climbed  the  slippery  stairs  to 
the  fourth  floor  of  the  building.  At  the 
stairhead  some  high  windows  swept  the 


FROM  A  THOUSAND  HILLS 

acres  of  yards  below  them.  Almost  as  far  as 
the  eye  could  see  extended,  like  a  giant 
checkerboard,  the  streets  and  avenues  of 
pens  and  inclosures.  In  smooth  curves, 
railroad  tracks  twisted  and  bent  with  a 
glint  of  worn  steel  rails.  Far  off  a  locomo- 
tive shot  suddenly  a  burst  of  white  steam 
against  the  sky  and  the  long  train  of  cattle- 
cars  behind  it  clanked  into  life.  In  the 
pens  there  was  a  restless  moving  of  the 
backs  of  countless  animals  as  they  wan- 
dered  back  and  forth  from  barrier  to  bar- 
rier, a  constant  motion  that  seemed  to  make 
the  whole  yard  eddy  like  the  shifting  sur- 
face of  a  dark-brown  sea.  A  confused  sound 
of  shuffling  hoofs  and  doleful  lowing  hung  in 
the  air,  and  above  all  that  great  sea  of  life 
rose  pungent  the  smell  of  a  myriad  ani- 
mals. 

From  the  pens  below  a  long  string  of  cat- 
tle moved  slowly  up  an  inclined  roadway 
99 


AMERICA  AT  WORK 

against  the  side  of  the  building,  which  in 
gradual  ascents  and  planes  reached  finally 
the  floor  on  which  I  stood.  Behind  the 
slow-moving  beasts  a  half-dozen  men,  like 
yapping  terriers,  goaded  them  from  the 
rear.  Aiding  in  their  own  destruction  they 
were  slowly  climbing  to  the  slaughter-house 
on  the  top  of  the  building,  whence  the  meat 
would  descend  by  gravity  from  floor  to  floor 
to  be  cured,  packed  or  dressed,  and  finally 
loaded  into  the  waiting  cars. 

There  was  a  smell  of  warm,  fresh  blood 
in  the  slaughter-house.  From  a  gallery 
against  the  wall  I  looked  down  over  a  wide 
room  dim  in  the  pale  glow  of  scattered 
lights.  The  cement  floor  was  black  with 
water  and  darker  streaks,  and  the  rubber 
boots  of  the  workmen  glistened  in  the  wet. 
There  was  a  clatter  of  hoofs  and  the  shouts 
of  men.  Into  a  long,  narrow  pen  on  the  far 
side  crowded  a  score  of  steers,  dazed  and 
100 


FROM  A  THOUSAND  HILLS   'f 

stumbling  on  each  other  in  a  panic  of  fear, 
their  nostrils  dilated  at  the  smell  of  blood. 
On  the  platform  above  the  pen  the  men  ran 
back  and  forth,  separating  the  cattle  until 
they  were  evenly  distributed  into  a  long 
line.  Then  gates  were  lowered  and  the 
pen  became  divided  into  a  dozen  compart- 
ments. Along  the  platform  two  men  with 
great  sledges  advanced  from  pen  to  pen.  A 
long,  clean  swing  of  mighty  arms,  the  dull 
knock  of  the  sledge  against  a  skull,  and  at 
each  stroke  a  steer  crumpled  with  a  clatter 
of  hoofs  and  disappeared.  In  a  minute  it 
was  ended;  the  front  side  of  the  pen  was 
lifted  and  the  great  limp  bodies  were 
dragged  out  with  chains  and  tackle. 

In  the  five  minutes  which  followed  a 
dozen  men  with  long,  thin  knives  stripped 
the  hides,  hoofs  and  entrails  from  the  steam- 
ing bodies.  Almost  before  I  realized  it,  it 
was  over;  a  man  with  a  hose  was  washing 
101 


AMERICA  AT  WORK 

the  floor;  the  slaughtered  carcasses  were 
being  wheeled  away,  and  into  the  pen  an- 
other bunch  of  cattle  were  crowding  and 
sniffing  the  heavy  air. 

It  was  night  when  I  left  the  building. 
Against  the  low  clouds  the  sudden  flares  of 
light  from  the  open  hearths  of  the  steel 
mills  gleamed  like  summer  lightning.  As  I 
walked  out  through  the  gate  into  the  glare 
of  the  crowded  street  there  came  from  the 
darkness  behind  me  the  low,  far-off  wail  of  a 
steer,  and  then,  faint  and  distant,  another 
answered  it. 


A 


XII 

CONCRETE 

CROSS  the  street  the  vast  frame  of 


a  concrete  office  building  is  climbing 
steadily  skyward.  Reinforced  with  rods 
of  steel  and  lacing  wire  the  gray  white  stone 
seems  endowed  with  a  strength  and  perma- 
nency for  all  eternity.  Each  week  the  con- 
fining boards  that  mould  the  concrete  are 
stripped  from  the  topmost  story  and  a  new 
section  is  revealed;  above,  the  scaffolding 
and  moulds  are  replaced  and  I  watch  and 
wait  for  the  next  disclosure  of  its  steady 
progress. 

What  is  this  substance  that  has  enabled 
men  to  mould,  in  monolithic  form,  struc- 
tures which  defy  the  wearing  touch  of  pass- 
ing years ;  what  is  this  man-made  stone  that 
103 


AMERICA  AT  WORK 

until  today  the  ages  only  have  been  able 
to  produce?  The  roots  which  bind  the 
building  to  the  bedrock  are  made  of  it;  the 
building  which  lifts  its  mass  above  them 
is  born  of  it;  street  and  sidewalk  in  the 
crowded  city,  the  dam  which  checks  a 
mighty  river  in  its  course,  and  the  humble 
cattle-trough  in  the  farmer's  barnyard  are 
moulded  perfect  from  its  mutable  sub- 
stance. Plastic,  tractable,  it  flows  into  the 
waiting  moulds  to  solidify,  in  forms  that 
only  years  of  patient  labor  with  natural 
stone  could  produce.  Flawless  and  beauti- 
ful in  form  and  texture  it  lends  itself  to  a 
thousand  purposes.  An  age  of  concrete  is 
at  hand. 

Like  giant  train-sheds  the  buildings  of 
the  cement  mills  loom,  half  hidden  in  a 
cloud  of  dust  that  drifts  and  eddies  like 
snow  -about  the  roofs,  low-lying  between 
earth  and  sky. 

104 


CONCRETE 

Beyond  the  gateway,  the  buildings  di- 
vide into  two  main  groups  separated  by  a 
sweep  of  open  ground.  There  is  no  sign  of 
life ;  no  sound  except  a  distant  rumbling  like 
the  grinding  wheels  of  the  freight  trains 
beyond  the  gate.  As  though  shod  in  flannel 
my  feet  sink  softly  in  the  dust;  already 
my  clothes  are  powdered  with  it,  a  dull, 
gray,  impalpable  dust  of  infinite  fineness. 

The  interest  in  this  vast  industry  lies 
principally  in  the  future  uses  of  its  prod- 
uct. Its  transmutation  from  the  living 
rock  of  incalculable  ages  to  a  form  which 
may  be  reverted  to  an  adamant  consistency, 
guided  and  controlled,  is  simply  a  long 
series  of  heating  and  grinding  processes 
that  are  striking  chiefly  for  the  tremendous 
nature  of  the  machinery  involved.  In  the 
gloom  of  the  buildings  a  disintegration  of 
the  very  bone  of  the  earth  was  in  progress. 
From  a  slender  trestle  behind  the  mills 
105 


AMERICA  AT  WORK 

strings  of  cars  cast  down  a  clattering 
shower  of  broken  stone,  fresh  from  the 
quarry's  deep  incision;  and  on  the  loading 
platforms  the  finished  cement  was  being 
loaded  into  box-cars  —  cities  in  sacks  and 
barrels. 

The  roar  of  grinding  stone  vibrated  in 
the  air.  Through  clouds  of  motionless  dust 
occasional  lights  gleamed  dully,  like  ship's 
lamps  in  a  fog.  Almost  ankle-deep  in  places 
the  cement  covered  the  floors  and  rested  in 
soft  mounds  on  stairsteps  and  girders.  Far 
off  in  the  semi-darkness  the  shapes  of  men 
appeared  and  were  gone. 

Before  me,  stretching  entirely  across  the 
width  of  the  building,  the  first  of  a  long 
line  of  drying-kilns  blocked  my  passage 
with  its  giant  body.  A  dozen  feet  in  di- 
ameter, it  rested  at  a  slight  angle,  one  end 
lifted  a  few  feet  above  the  other.  Rumbling 
dully,  below  the  shrill  clatter  of  the  grind- 
106 


CONCRETE 

ing  rock,  they  revolved  slowly  on  their 
carriages,  while  through  their  intensely 
heated  interiors  a  torrent  of  broken  stone 
tumbled  over  and  over  in  gradual  descent 
to  the  openings  in  their  lower  ends.  At  the 
base  of  each  kiln  a  jet  of  flame  gleamed  a 
warm  cherry  through  the  dust  as  it  shot  its 
incandescent  stream  into  the  base  of  the 
revolving  tube.  Cold  and  lifeless  the  broken 
stone  poured  into  the  upper  end  from  the 
crowded  hoppers;  white  with  heat  it  tum- 
bled, a  piercing,  gleaming  torrent  from  the 
base  of  the  kiln. 

Cooled  and  blackened  the  dried  stone 
passed  on  from  the  drying-kilns  to  the 
crushing-mills,  steel  monsters  that  ground 
it  to  powder  with  a  clanking  reverberation. 

High  above  the  kilns,  on  a  great  plat- 
form beside  the  storage  hoppers,  the  crush- 
ing-mills that  I  had  heard  since  I  first  en- 
tered the  building  stretched  off  into  gloom. 
107 


AMERICA  AT  WORK 

As  though  seized  with  a  frenzy  of  labor, 
they  writhed  and  shook  in  an  excess  of  mo- 
tion ;  black  Cyclops  beating  the  very  rock  to 
dust  beneath  their  iron-shod  feet.  Loud  as 
I  shouted,  my  voice  was  lost  in  the  smash- 
ing roar  of  their  foot-beats ;  my  body  quiv- 
ered with  the  vibration  of  their  agonized 
labor. 

Blended  with  the  powder  of  other  stones 
in  the  mixing-hoppers,  the  endless  stream 
passed  on  to  the  tube  mills,  where  pebbles 
of  flint  beat  it  to  a  finer  consistency.  Like 
gray  flour,  the  endless  belts  bore  it  in  a 
slender  stream  to  the  waiting  bins. 

In  the  burning-building  another  battery 
of  kilns  like  those  in  the  drying-room  with- 
ered the  powdered  dust  to  clinkers.  Above 
me,  the  black  bellies  of  the  kilns,  reaching 
from  wall  to  wall,  turned  slowly  with  a 
steady  motion,  great  cylinders  of  steel  re- 
volving gently  between  giant  fingers.  Red 
108 


CONCRETE 

through  the  dust  burned  the  light  of  the 
flame  blasts  at  their  bases.  Through  blue 
glasses  I  peered  up  into  the  slanting  tube, 
—  as  the  burning  tunnel  of  a  mine  it  seemed 
redolent  with  heat  and  flame. 

In  the  finishing-mill  were  repetitions  of 
previous  processes  by  which  the  clinker  was 
resolved  again  to  the  fine  powder  of  the 
finished  cement.  Like  millers,  white  with 
flour,  occasional  workers  passed  among  the 
machines;  but  it  is  not  men  that  I  remem- 
ber, rather  a  feeling  of  their  absence, — 
an  impression  of  vast  machinery  auto- 
matically and  ceaselessly  performing  its 
perfect  functions. 

Even  the  sampling  had  been  reduced 
to  an  automatic  process.  Fascinated,  I 
watched  a  slender  arm  of  steel  that  dipped  at 
perfect  intervals  a  sample  from  a  moving 
belt,  lifted  it  high,  swallowed  it,  and  paused, 
waiting  the  moment  for  a  repetition  of  the 
109 


AMERICA  AT  WORK 

act.  Somehow,  through  that  slim  arm,  the 
tiny  handfuls  of  cement  passed  out  in  reg- 
ular order  to  the  laboratories  in  a  distant 
building,  where  with  scales  and  test  tube 
the  destroying  touch  of  centuries  was  con- 
centrated in  a  few  days  or  hours  of  grueling 
test. 

From  the  storage  building  the  waiting 
cars  were  being  loaded  with  sacks  and  bar- 
rels of  cement.  For  ten  thousand  years 
man  has  toiled  to  build  for  perpetuity. 
Rotted  and  gone  with  the  dust  of  ages  are 
the  temples  of  antiquity.  The  great  blocks 
of  the  pyramids  stand  in  their  places  de- 
faced and  worn  by  the  winds  of  centuries ; 
stone  alone  endures.  But  in  these  sacks 
and  barrels  rested  a  new  and  magic  sub- 
stance, the  stone  of  the  future  ages;  no 
blast  or  chisel  is  called  upon  to  cleave  it ;  in 
its  fine  texture  will  be  none  of  the  imperfec- 
tions of  the  natural  parent ;  no  crack  or  flaw 
no 


CONCRETE 

will  break  its  even  texture.  Nor  is  strength 
or  skill  required  to  mould  it  to  its  everlast- 
ing form.  Firm  rooted  to  the  ribs  of  the 
earth  it  will  carry  the  weight  of  lofty  mono- 
liths; through  its  smooth  base  new  rivers 
will  bear  water  to  the  city's  mouth.  Be- 
neath sea  and  land,  on  the  lonely  farm  and 
the  crowded  city  street,  this  mutable  sub- 
stance has  proved  its  right  everlastingly 
to  endure  in  imperishable  concrete. 


THE   END 


CAMBRIDGE  .  MASSACHUSETTS 
U   .   S   .  A 


A  YEAR  IN  A  COAL-MINE 


By  JOSEPH  HUSBAND 


"  Mr.  Husband  enables  the  reader  to  carry 
away  a  vitalized  impression  of  a  coal-mine,  its 
working  and  its  workers,  and  a  grasp  of  vivid 
details."  —  San  Francisco  Chronicle. 

"  It  is  a  story  of  vivid  and  compelling  interest 
and  every  word  bears  the  impress  of  truth."  — 
Living  Age. 

"  Apart  from  its  informative  value,  this  is  a 
book  that  no  one  can  fail  to  enjoy."  —  Phila- 
delphia Press. 

"  A  refreshingly  frank  narrative."  —  New 
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ARE  WE  READY? 

By  H.  D.  WHEELER 
With  an  introduction  by 
Maj.-Gen.  Leonard  Wood. 

A  sane,  constructive  study  of  our  preparedness 
for  war,  in  which  the  strength  and  weakness  of 
our  present  system  are  pointed  out  and  specific 
plans  are  proposed  for  the  formation  of  a  citi- 
zen army. 

Beginning  with  an  absorbing  narrative  of  an 
imaginary  "  attack  on  New  York,"  the  author 
shows  the  present  situation  in  the  regular  army, 
the  militia,  and  the  navy.  He  then  deals  with 
our  traditional  military  policy,  what  it  contem- 
plates and  how  it  has  been  applied  ;  with  "  the 
militia,"  its  history,  function,  organization, 
equipment,  and  its  one  great  weakness;  with 
militarism  vs.  democracy,  making  illuminating 
comparisons  of  the  military  situation  in  the 
United  States  with  that  in  Switzerland  and  in 
Australia ;  —  and  concludes  with  two  very  im- 
portant chapters  in  which  he  proposes  certain 
concrete  administrative  and  legislative  reforms. 

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THE  ROCKY  MOUNTAIN  WONDERLAND 

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varied  with  thrilling  incidents  of  perils  and  adven- 
tures met  with  in  the  vast  wilderness.  But  the  chief 
impression  left  on  the  reader  is  that  of  a  wonderland 
of  lofty  mountains,  natural  parks,  gem-like  lakes, 
alpine  flower-gardens,  and  streams  full  of  trout  await- 
ing the  angler.  The  book  contains  withal  a  deal  of 
keen,  original  observation  on  the  habits  of  the  Rocky 
Mountain  forests  and  the  ways  of  the  wild  folk  that 
roam  through  them  and  that  inhabit  the  vast  treeless 
tracts  above  timber-line. 

IN  BEAVER  WORLD 

"A  fascinating  nature  book  —  one  that  must  be 
classed  with  those  of  Burroughs  and  Muir  in  original 
observation."  —  Chicago  Record- Herald. 

WILD  LIFE  IN  THE  ROCKIES 

"An  uncommonly  interesting  and  graphic  description  of 
life  in  the  Rocky  Mountains." — Springfield  Republican. 

THE  SPELL  OF  THE  ROCKIES 

"Gives  a  clearer  idea  of  the  Rockies,  their  trees,  flowers, 
plant  life,  birds,  and  beasts  than  may  be  gleaned  from  any 
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THE  CLARION 


By  Samuel  Hopkins  Adams 


The  story  of  an  American  city,  the  men  who  con- 
trolled it,  the  young  editor  who  attempted  to  reform 
it,  and  the  audacious  girl  who  helped  sway  its  desti- 
nies. 

"A  vivid  and  picturesque  story." — Boston  Tran- 
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Picayune. 

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THE  DIPLOMACY  OF 
THE  WAR  OF  1914 

1.  The  Beginning  of  the  War 

By  ELLERY  C  STOWELL 

This,  the  first  of  three  volumes  which  are  to 
trace  the  entire  diplomatic  history  of  the  war,  is 
perhaps  the  most  complete,  authoritative,  and 
impartial  account  of  the  subject  yet  written. 
Pushing  aside  the  web  of  contradictions  in 
which  partisans  of  both  sides  have  veiled  the 
issues,  the  author  analyzes  the  official  docu- 
ments with  the  skill  and  experience  of  an  ac- 
complished international  lawyer  and  specialist 
in  diplomatic  history,  showing  the  fundamental 
relations  of  the  powers  and  preserving  always 
the  thread  of  exceedingly  complicated  nego- 
tiations. The  volume  culminates  in  a  discus- 
sion of  the  violation  of  Belgian  neutrality, 
and  after  a  searching  analysis  of  the  cases  of 
England  and  of  Germany,  the  author  closes 
with  a  study  of  the  interests  of  the  United 
States  in  the  war.  A  most  suggestive  chapter 
of  questions  and  answers,  a  carefully  prepared 
chronology  of  events,  and  an  index  make  the 
book  as  useful  for  study  or  reference  as  it  is 
interesting  to  read. 

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NIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 


